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THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 







THE BONCOEUR 

AFFAIR 


BY 


HARVEY WICKHAM 

ii 

AUTHOR Or "THE CLUE OF THE PRIMROSE PETAL,” 
"THE SCARLET X,” ETC. 



> 




NEW YORK 

EDWARD *J. CLODE 






















































COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 
EDWARD J. CLODE 

All rights reserved 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


APR 24 1523 " A 

©Cl A? 04300 v i A— 


-Vlo yr 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

A Jeune Fille. 

• 

PAGE 

1 

II. 

Murder. 

• 

21 

III. 

The Stir Which Follows Crime 

32 

IV. 

Le Squelette. 

• 

50 

y. 

A Discredited Official 

• 

66 

VI. 

The Death Cup .... 

• 

78 

VII. 

In Ninette's Room .... 

• 

103 

VIII. 

Discoveries. 


120 

IX. 

Chez le Juge. 


136 

X. 

A Blotch of Ink .... 

• 

154 

XI. 

Disappearances from the Scene 

• 

180 

XII. 

Forgeron Tries His Hand . 

• 

197 

XIII. 

Le Squellette’s Promenade 

• 

212 

XIV. 

Two Views of Avignon 

# 

219 

XV. 

The Tower of Philippe Le Bel 

• 

232 

XVI. 

Tardieu's Party .... 

• 

255 

XVII. 

The Trail of the Squid . 

• 

292 











THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 






















THE BONCOEUR 
AFFAIR 


CHAPTER I 

A JEUNE FlLLE 

J AYNE BONCOEUR lay watching the 
early morning sun thrust its fingers 
through the slats of the heavy outside 
blinds that were never opened. She had 
been dreaming that she was a princess kept 
prisoner by a host of dragons, and the sun¬ 
light was somehow like the fairy prince who 
had come to rescue her. 

The bedroom door opened, and in came a 
very stout woman—almost a female Buddha 
—in a wheeled chair pushed by a sallow, 
dyspeptic looking man wearing spectacles. 

“Maman! Papa!” cried Jayne, flinging 
herself first on the breast of the woman and 
then into the arms of the man. “You have 

[ 1 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

come to see _jne before breakfast. C’est 
incroydble.” 

“C’est ton fete —hast thou forgotten?” 
asked Madame Boncoeur stolidly, but after 
a passionate embrace. “Thy father has 
brought a present. Get up, little cabbage. 
Twenty years old. Pensez! Almost a 
woman. ’ ’ 

“It’s a necklace,” said Boncoeur, choking 
back a lump in his throat with a man’s natu¬ 
ral shame in the presence of tender emo¬ 
tions. “Pray the ion Dieu that it does not 
make thee vain.” 

Jayne fastened the pearls around her 
neck, thrust her feet into a pair of bedroom 
slippers, and danced ecstatically before an 
old-fashioned mirror which hung between 
the front windows. She was dark, slender, 
with only her lips fully ripened into beauty. 
Everywhere else immaturity enveloped her 
as the shell envelops the half-freed chick. 
Yet it was an immaturity of spirit rather 
than of body—a secret which her simple 
white night-dress but imperfectly concealed. 

[ 2 ] 


A JEUNE FILLE 


There were signs of coming rebellion when 
she turned again to her parents. 

“And may I wear them, and not keep 
them locked up in a stupid box?” she de¬ 
manded. 

“Thou mayest wear them to-day,” con¬ 
ceded the mother, with a doubtful frown. 

“Then there’s just one thing more,” con¬ 
tinued Jayne, approaching her father as the 
likelier subject for a fresh assault. “I want 
to walk this afternoon in the Luxembourg 
Gardens—alone. ’ ’ 

“What a mad idea! Walk in the gardens 
by all means. But Charlotte shall accom¬ 
pany thee. ’ ’ 

“No, maman, I want to go alone. It’s my 
birthday, and I want to feel that I’m no 
longer a child. Ninette walks out alone.” 

“She is older,” explained the father. 

“Only a year.” 

“It’s not to be thought of,” the mother 
broke in. “If Jayne is not a child, all the 
more need of a chaperone till she’s married. 
The next thing and she’ll be asking to 
parade the streets in her necklace. 

[3] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Be a good daughter and dress thyself. 
Don’t let happiness come between thee and 
obedience.” 

Madame Boncoeur was wheeled from the 
room by her husband. Jayne began slowly 
to put on a sober morning frock. Then she 
went to the window, shoved the half-drawn 
curtains completely aside, and looked out. 

The slats of the shutters still somewhat 
obstructed the view, but between them she 
could catch glimpses of pedestrians passing 
along the quai Bethune, and beyond them a 
sparkling strip of the Seine. It was the 

r 

only part of Paris she really knew—a part 
as unprogressive as the regime under which 
she lived. 

Not even the late war, when it filled other 
parts of the city with soldiers and men 
speaking strange tongues, had given the 
least touch of modernity to the somber quiet 
of that Isle of St. Louis, folded about by the 
arms of the river just above Notre Dame. 
No tourist ever set foot there. Even the 
police knew it only as the home of dully 

[4] 


A JEUNE FILLE 


prosperous bourgeois, eminently respectable 
and therefore of no particular interest. 

To Jayne, however, it had all the fascina¬ 
tion of an island surrrounded by mysterious 
waters, to which came the strangest dramas 
—only to unfold enigmatic scenes and then 
pass to wonderful unknown endings beyond 
her view. A cloud lifted from her eyes as 
she stood there by her window—friendly in 
spite of the shutters. And when a truck 
rumbled across pont Sully, just to her left, 
she smiled. It reminded her of the chariot 
of the fairy prince, with whom she had 
danced in her dream. 

“Good morning, little one,” said a voice 
behind her. “Twenty years! It’s quite a 
young lady— heinV’ 

A faded, middle-aged woman wearing a 
neat servant’s cap had entered with a tray, 
which she deposited upon a small table in 
the middle of the room. Jayne kissed her 
affectionately on both cheeks, and sat down 
to breakfast. She liked Charlotte—chiefly, 
perhaps, because she alone in all the world 
had stopped using thee and thou, those 

[5] 



THE BONCOEUB AFEAIE 


familiar pronouns which the French reserve 
exclusively for addressing relatives, sweet¬ 
hearts, servants, children and God. 

“I wish I was really a young lady,” she 
said, snatching her lips from a scalding cup 
of chocolate. “But I guess I’m never going 
to be. To-day I wanted to go out walking 
alone, and they wouldn’t hear of it.” 

“That’s nothing to pout over, cherie. We 
can go together. Has Ninette been in to see 
you yet?” 

“Not likely—and she on the railroad all 
day yesterday! Ninette can go to Avignon 
and stay two weeks. Nobody ever bothers 
about her.” 

“Your sister is older, and engaged to 
marry. When you are fiancee you will go 
where you wish, too.” 

“No, Charlotte.” 

Jayne paused, as if a painful suspicion 
for a long time lying vaguely within her 
mind had suddenly taken shape. 

“No, it’s something about me . Ninette is 
a little older, but she’s twice as pretty. It’s 
she that ought to be taken stricter care of. 

[ 6 ] 


A JEUNE FILLE 


And she did everything she liked long be¬ 
fore M’sieu Noyeau asked for her hand. 
She wears, too, the kind of clothes that 
maman says are loud—when I ask for 
them. ’ ’ 

“It looks to me as if you had something 
rather fine,” returned the servant, pointing 
to the necklace which her eyes had never left 
since the beginning of the interview. 

“Yes,” admitted the girl judicially. “It’s 
just like the one Ninette had three years ago. 
But why are the outside shutters always 
locked nowadays? I don’t know why it 
never struck me as funny before, but-” 

“What a question, with only the basement 
between you and the sidewalk! Weren’t 
Ninette’s pearls stolen? You ought to have 
iron bars now.” 

“Well, then, who is this friend of maman’s 
that Ninette went off to visit?” 

“Goodness gracious! Isn’t it enough to 
have a birthday and a necklace and the best 
love of everybody in the house, without driv¬ 
ing a body frantic with questions?” 

“But if I could only stop wondering!” 

[7] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Jayne’s glance went from the padlocks— 
which held the outer shutters in place, each 
with a grip like that of an ugly hand—and 
sought the horizontal strips of view beyond. 

“The quai is always interesting, anyway. 
I look out and imagine all sorts of things.” 

“It’s time, child, you gave up so much 
imagining.” 

“But I don’t imagine them all, Charlotte. 
There are wonderful ladies—real ladies— 
and handsome men who go by in cabs like 
kings and queens. And there are laborers, 
and street boys, and fights, and processions 
of priests from the cathedral, and old women 
with carts. Sometimes there are gypsies.” 

‘ ‘ Gypsies ?” The servant, who had begun 
tidying up the room, came sharply to a halt 
in front of her young mistress. 

“Well, one gypsy anyway.” 

“Jayne, you mustn’t mix up the things 
you imagine with the things you see.” 

‘ 1 1 don’t. I’ve been seeing her for months 
—not often, but every once in a while. She 
looks up at the house, and the last time I was 
almost sure she saw me and nodded.” 

[ 8 ] 



A JEUNE FILLE 


Charlotte was clearly disturbed. 

“It’s only some old woman with a shawl,” 
she said finally. “I think I’ve seen her my¬ 
self. But if I were you I wouldn’t begin 
talking such nonsense to your mother. She’s 
over-tender of you, and if you’re not careful 
she’ll be changing your room to one on the 
court away from everything.” 

With this admonition ringing in her ears, 
Jayne found herself alone. She nibbled at 
a small, hard cake, but showed little appe¬ 
tite, and a look of perplexity gradually 
darkened her features. 

“Padlocks! Forbidden to go out alone! 
And I mustn’t speak of gypsies,” she sighed. 
“Maybe it was just an old woman in a shawl. 
But what made Charlotte think that mother 
wouldn’t like it?” 

The conviction that life—her own espe¬ 
cially—was filled with inexplicable things 
threw her into a fit of quite unchildish 
musing, which continued until she was 
roused by a blow struck sharply against one 
of the shutters outside. 

Jayne looked out, and at first saw no one. 

[9] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Then she caught sight of a bent, wrinkled 
old woman huddled up close under the win¬ 
dow. Her face was repulsively dirty, yet 
not without traces of an original beauty. 
But what made Jayne start back with an 
exclamation was a shawl wrapped gypsy- 
fashion about the hag’s head and shoulders. 

“Don’t be afraid, cherie!” crooned a soft 
voice. ‘ ‘ I came to bring you good luck. Can 
you get out?” 

“The shutters are locked,” whispered 
Jayne, regaining her courage and pressing 
her face against the barrier. “Who are 
you? What do you want?” 

“I want to tell your fortune and show you 
the beautiful world. Locked, did you say?” 

Jayne was seized with a sudden longing. 
The beautiful world was the very thing she 
wished to know more about. 

“I might come out by the door if nobody 
is looking,” she ventured. 

The gypsy shook her head. 

“No, for then how would you get back? 
Haven’t you a poker in your room?” 

“A poker and a pair of tongs and a fire- 

[ 10 ] 



A JEUNE FILLE 


shovel, of course. How else would one attend 
to the grate?” 

“Take the poker, then, and pry your shut¬ 
ter open. The window below is shuttered 
on the inside, I see. But there is a grating. 
You can easily climb up and down if you are 
strong.” 

“I am very strong, but-” 

“Say no more. Nobody will see you, and 
you can meet me at Les Deux Chiens at two 
o ’clock. It is by Notre Dame. Do you know 
it ? Two nice green dogs on a red sign.” 

Jayne had seen the device often on her 
way to mass. And as the interior of the 
wine-shop it indicated was entirely beyond 
her experience, she had an idea that it was 
equally unknown to everybody else—a safe 
refuge where no one could possibly follow 
her. 

Yet the proposal was too startling to be 
accepted all at once. Jayne drew back and 
tried to get her mental bearings. When she 
looked out again, prepared to acknowledge 
her lack of courage for such an undertaking, 
the gypsy was gone. Simply gone, and the 

[ii] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


sidewalk empty except for a few laborers 
and a conventionally dressed female of un¬ 
certain age making her way over the cross¬ 
ing at the corner. 

Jayne was too astonished even to think. 
But soon her gaze was drawn from the quai 
to the room—especially to the grate, from 
the depths of which the handle of a stout 
iron poker peeped out, it not being cold 
enough for a fire. There was fascination in 
this poker, and five minutes later she had 
withdrawn one of the padlock staples—no 
easy feat, notwithstanding the softening 
influence of years and dampness upon the 
wood. 

The rest of the morning she spent in mor¬ 
tal terror. True, she had replaced the staple. 
But what if somebody should come and dis¬ 
cover that she had tampered with it ? 

Luncheon, with the Boncoeur family, was 
an inconsiderable affair. The head of the 
house—head also of a thriving chemical 
usine out near Conflans—never came home 
to the meal. In this he was imitated by his 
boarder, foreman and prospective son-in- 

[ 12 ] 




A JEUNE FILLE 


law, Pierre Noyeau. The women, left thus 
alone, naturally saved themselves and their 
appetites for the evening. By one o’clock 
everyone had risen from the table. 

Jayne hurried to her room. She was 
afraid that if she waited any longer it would 
be discovered what she had done to the pad¬ 
lock, while if she started out at once she 
might get back before Charlotte came to take 
her for her walk. She could then call atten¬ 
tion to the condition of the fastening herself 
—with such pangs of conscience as need be 
dealt with only when they arrived. 

To the possibility of the gypsy not yet 
being at the rendezvous, Jayne gave no 
thought, for she had by no means made up 
her mind to venture as far as Les Deux 
Chiens. All she dared look forward to was 
a few minutes of genuine liberty. And so— 
having slipped through the window and 
closed the shutter behind her—she crossed 
to the other side of the Seine and went trip¬ 
ping down the quai de la Tournelle. The 
afternoon was warm and silvery, though it 
was only the twenty-second of March, and to 

[ 13 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

be out of doors unattended was like having 
wings. 

Ever since she could remember, vague 
warnings as to the dangers of the world had 
been dinned into her ears. But it looked as 
friendly now as the postman at Christmas. 
Her spirits bubbling over like a newly- 
opened bottle of champagne, she came by 
pont d’Arcole to the heavy-towered cathe¬ 
dral—and there, not ten steps beyond, was 
the weather-beaten but inviting sign of Les 
Deux Chiens. 

Only in the very old quarters of very old 
cities will one find public houses and master¬ 
pieces of architecture growing, so to speak, 
side by side like oaks and creepers in a 
crowded wood. Ancient prescriptive rights, 
perpetuating the tolerant customs of a less 
critical age, no doubt account for the phe¬ 
nomenon. The wine-shop flourished in the 
very shadow of the church, and Jayne was 
carried on by the momentum of her excite¬ 
ment. 

She found herself in a large room, wretch¬ 
edly lighted, with a small, zinc-covered 

[ 14 ] 


A JEUNE FILLE 


counter near the door and dirty tables with 
rickety iron chairs covering its floor-space. 
As she slipped into a corner of the unuphol¬ 
stered bench which ran about the walls, half 
a dozen laborers in grease-stained blouses 
turned to leer at her in surprised but apa¬ 
thetic admiration. 

“Du cafe,” she gasped to the waiter who 
sauntered towards her. 

He wiped his hands on his dingy apron, 
and stared. Couldn’t people see that this 
was a wine-shop and not a coffee-house? 
Young ladies, alone and without paint or 
powder, had no business to come blundering 
in. Yet a very young lady, and a dainty one 
at that, mustn’t be rebuffed. 

“Pardon,” he smiled, after a doubtful 
pause, “mais - ” 

“Mademoiselle vent dire du vin” said si 
young man, gliding into a seat beside Jayne 
and unobtrusively extending a crumpled bill 
upon which the waiter’s fingers instantly 
closed. “Wine, not coffee. Don’t you 
understand?” 

Jayne was thoroughly frightened now. 

[ 15 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Even a sight of the gypsy, whom her eyes 
sought everywhere, would have been re¬ 
assuring. But the laborers had returned to 
their glasses and were no longer paying her 
the slightest attention. That was one relief. 
And the man who had rescued her from her 
dilemma was of such another sort, and 
dressed so exactly like the men she was 
accustomed to seeing at home, that her fears 
began to ebb even before he went on: 

“You will excuse me, Mademoiselle. But 
one can order only VoUcooliques here, and I 
didn’t want you to be embarrassed.” 

“It was good of you,” she responded. 
“But I never should have come. I expected 
to meet someone.” 

Her companion smiled. 

“Then, since m’sieu is late-” 

“It isn’t a gentleman. And it isn’t late. 
I’m ahead of time.” 

“By Jove, it’s perfect!” exclaimed the 
other under his breath and in English. 

The waiter brought a bottle of vintage 
Paul Roger and two glasses—the bank-note 
slipped into his hand having been of a de- 

[ 16 ] 



A JEUNE FILLE 


nomination to work miracles—and Jayne 
tasted it because that seemed the thing to do. 
It brought back almost at once the rapturous 
feeling which she had lost on coming in from 
the street. 

“My name is Benson/’ she heard the 
young man saying. “Aren’t you going to 
tell me yours?” 

i ‘ Why, of course. I am Jayne Boncoeur. ’ ’ 

“Not of the quai Bethune ?” 

“You don’t mean you know me?” 

“No, but I’ve heard of your—your father. 
Who in the world did you come here to 
meet?” 

Benson’s look had altered. It had become 
more serious. And when she let fall the 
word gypsy he showed unmistakable alarm. 

“I must get you out of here before she 
comes,” he declared. “It isn’t safe to meet 
strangers in Paris—old women above all. 
Why, she might be anything.” 

“You act as if you were afraid of her,” 
laughed Jayne, from the vantage ground of 
her new-found assurance. “Besides, you 
are a stranger, too.” 

[ 17 ] 






THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“But I didn’t meet you by appointment. 
My villainy is at least impromptu.” 

He echoed her laugh as he spoke, but lost 
no time in getting her out into the street. 
As they passed the open square of the parvis 
Notre Dame they could see an old woman, 
her face concealed by a shawl, coming 
towards them. It was easy to avoid her, 
however, by hurrying around a corner, and 
before Jayne could collect her once more 
scattered senses they were seated in a pleas¬ 
ant restaurant-cafe. 

“You’ll get your coffee now,” said the 
young man. “I don’t want to fill you up 
with wine.” 

The point of the remark was altogether 
lost upon Jayne, for the idea that wine might 
be dangerous simply never occurred to her. 
She was used to wine—even champagne 
occasionally—upon the table at home, and 
the trifling effects of her present indulgence 
had already begun to pass off. 

Not so with a deeper intoxication which 
was invading her spirit. Benson talked on 
and on. He was about thirty, decidedly 

[ 18 ] 



A JEUNE FILLE 


good looking, and every minute his glances 
became more eloquent. As she listened, her 
own eyes, too, grew brighter and brighter. 
There was no use in continuing to deny it to 
one’s self—to keep on saying over and over 
again under one’s breath that it was impos¬ 
sible, that miracles didn’t happen. This 
young man who sat before her in the flesh 
was the fairy prince of whom she had so 
often dreamed. 

The Latin temperament is warm-blooded. 
It knows nothing of the hesitations and 
slowly arriving emotions of the colder Anglo- 
Saxon. French parents are perhaps not act¬ 
ing without reason when they put quaint, 
old-fashioned restrictions in the way of their 
sons and daughters. By the time the pair 
were out upon the quai once more, the man 
was saying: 

‘ ‘ Promise me that you ’ll surely come. I ’ll 
knock on the blind as I pass. And don’t for¬ 
get that I love you. This is serious. It came 
to me like a flash.” 

And Jayne, seeing all the world in a glory, 
answered: 


[ 19 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Yes, it came to me like that, too—sud¬ 
denly—the feeling which I’ve been waiting 
all my life to find.” 

“But you’ll be very careful?” 

“Say thou. But I shall be very careful, 
indeed. Mother can hardly put her feet to 
the floor. All I have to fear is a scolding 
from Charlotte. Besides, you’ll soon have 
that letter of introduction to papa, and then 
everything will be right.” 

With that she hurried on alone, hugging 
to her breast a box of candied marrons which 
Benson had bought. She little dreamed 
how very far from right things were going 
to be—and in the space of a few hours. 


[ 20 ] 


CHAPTER II 
Murder 

J AYNE was almost home when a small 
but well-knit Frenchman, dressed in the 
conservative taste of the upper bour¬ 
geois, caught sight of her from the opposite 
side of the street and made immediately 
towards her. 

‘ ‘ My dear! Can this be you V ’ 

She recognized her sister’s fiance, and 
answered with a childish pout: 

“Pierre, if you tell on me I’ll never speak 
to you! It’s my birthday. I just had to 
slip out by myself—to prove that I’m really 
twenty.” 

“Who said anything about telling?” Noy- 
eau laughed. “But if you’re out alone it’s 
lucky I met you. ’ ’ 

“Why?” 

“Because now I can slip you in again.” 
“Will you do that, and say I was with 
you?” 


[ 21 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“It's a bargain, but—bow long have you 
been gone?” 

“A good while, I’m afraid. But I simply 
bad to. If I can’t do as I like before long 
I shall burst.” 

She drew a deep breath, as though half- 
minded to bring about the threatened de¬ 
struction then and there. And, indeed, she 
was nearly bursting—to tell. About the 
gypsy, at least. Benson was too wonderful 
to be revealed, even to Pierre, though 
Pierre’s manner and his unaccustomed use 
of the adult pronoun seemed to entitle him to 
some special favor. 

“The folks are out of date,” he said, re¬ 
garding her. “But leave everything to me. 
If there are questions, I’ll answer them.” 

There were no questions. Madame Bon- 
coeur had not left her room. And Charlotte, 
after worrying herself to exhaustion, had 
fallen asleep in her chair while wrestling 
with the problem whether she ought or ought 
not to raise an alarm. The presence of 
Pierre explained everything. 

[ 22 ] 


MURDER 


Jayne went to her room, carefully replaced 
the staple in its padlock, and sat down to 
revel wickedly in thoughts of the afternoon. 
A little later, in the novelty of having her 
pearls around her neck and her luxuriant 
hair done up farther atop of her head than 
it had ever been before, she almost forgot 
that her best frock was substantial rather 
than pretty and that dinner wasn’t to be the 
genuine birthday party for which she had so 
often longed. 

The truth forced itself upon her quickly 
enough in the family dining-room on the 
floor above. Dinner wasn’t even an ordi¬ 
nary meal. Her parents, plainly troubled 
about something, greeted her with only 
the slimmest pretense of gayety, relapsing 
almost at once into absent-minded silence. 
And Pierre had taken Ninette out to dine in 
some delectable resort down by the grand 
boulevards. Jayne slid from the heights 
of love and young-ladyhood into the very 
slough of immaturity, filled with ungratified 
wishes and a desire to cry. It didn’t so much 

[ 23 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

matter about Pierre. But Ninette hadn’t 
seen her once during the entire day. 

The evening passed in playing bezique 
with Charlotte. Then came a lonely revery, 
which was interrupted by the turning of a 
key in the door leading to her sister’s room. 

Never since she could remember had that 
key ever turned before. Ninette kept it on 
her side of the lock, and insisted on all com¬ 
munication taking its route through the hall. 
Yet there she stood in the forbidden opening 
dressed in a bewitching evening gown of 
tomato-red silk—a gown daringly low in the 
neck and terminating in mere wisps of 
pointed panels just below the knees. Her 
hair, which she had let down, gave her an 
untamed look. It was of a coppery gold. 
And from beneath her long lashes shone two 
liquid blue eyes, which—according to a fam¬ 
ily legend—she inherited from a maternal 
grandmother. 

But what held Jayne’s attention was an 
unwonted radiance—no mere reflection from 
the dress, but a sort of inward glow—which 
made her sister fairly dazzling. 

[ 24 ] 


MURDER 


“I’m sorry we missed each other this 
morning, sissy,” she began, closing the door 
behind her and taking Jayne eagerly in her 
arms. “But I was so done up. Then I had 
a dreadful row with maman . That’s why I 
didn’t stay home to dinner.” 

“A row?” 

“Yes, about—oh, she was disappointed in 
something and just wanted to be odious.” 

By this time the two girls were sitting side 
by side on the bed, Jayne wondering if this 
could really be Ninette—the proud, free 
beauty who was in the habit of neglecting 
her. 

“It’s too bad, Nina,” she brought out, still 
dazed by the warmth of her sister’s kiss. 

“I don’t care. Pierre and I are going to 
be married almost right away, so it doesn’t 
matter what anybody else says or wants. 
But look here. I think we ought to see more 
of each other. We’re both growing up, and 
I declare we’re hardly acquainted. I’m 
going to leave the door between our rooms 
unlocked after this.” 

It came to J ayne that Pierre might have 

[ 25 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


betrayed her, at least to his fiancee, and that 
Ninette’s tardy solicitude indicated an in¬ 
tention to watch her goings and comings. 

“Have a candied marron!” she cried, 
jumping down and taking Benson’s beauti¬ 
ful box from the bureau drawer where she 
had hidden it. 

After all, she and her sister were peers 
now. Didn’t they both have lovers? No 
need, then, to let the old ascendency of the 
elder reassert itself. 

“Who gave you these?” asked Ninette. 
“Were they a birthday present? And that 
reminds me. I haven’t yet ’ ’ 

“Pierre gave them to me,” interrupted 

Jayne, seizing upon the only explanation she 

dared to put forward. She couldn’t tell the 

truth—not vet. And Pierre seemed the saf- 
* 

est pretense. He could hardly be mean 
enough to deny such a thing as that. 

“I’m going to give thee one of my rings,” 
Ninette went on. 

Then she noticed the pearls, and almost 
snatched them. 

“Where did you get this necklace?” 

[ 26 ] 



MURDER 


“From the parents, of course.” 

“Well, this is strange. Pearl for pearl, 
it’s the same as the string I lost.” 

“How could it be the same ? Haven’t vou 

%/ 

enough things of your own without wanting 
to claim mine?” 

“I’m not claiming them, p’tite. I only 
meant they looked the same. Come and pick 
out your ring. All I ask for is this box of 
marrons. I know I shan’t sleep, and they’ll 
be nice to nibble on.” 

Jayne complied somewhat sulkily, and 
being led to Ninette’s jewel case picked out 
the smallest ring she could find. It had come 
to her with a pang of jealousy that this full¬ 
blown young woman, who had grown up in 
the same house with her, belonged to a dif¬ 
ferent world altogether, and was quite too 
happy to quarrel. It wasn’t even certain 
that she was convinced about the pearls. 
She merely didn’t care. Yet as Jayne turned 
to leave her, curled up in bed and her nose 
buried in a book, her heart softened. 

“Ninette, I don’t see how you dare be so 

[ 27 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


beautiful—and so happy. Charlotte says it 
brings bad luck.” 

“Charlotte is a superstitious old maid. 
Don’t you worry. You’ll be just as pretty 
some day.” 

“But what makes you so beautiful? I 
never saw you like it before. ’ ’ 

Ninette blushed in unmistakable confu¬ 
sion, which added the final touch to her love¬ 
liness, and declared that she had had enough 
of compliments. Jayne went thoughtfully 
back to her room, opened the violated blind 
and sat down to the novelty of an untram¬ 
meled view. 

Midnight tolled from a hundred belfries— 
a few nearby, many at incredible distances 
—and for some reason the farther notes 
made her shiver, they sounded so like the 
ghosts of the nearer ones escaping and 
drifting away with long-drawn, diminishing 
cries. 

Then a pedestrian came past, and behind 
him another who made no more sound than 
if he had been a shadow. Opposite the house 
the first one looked up and seemed to hesi- 

[ 28 ] 


MURDER 


tate. And something in his face—or perhaps 
it was merely her own unfamiliarity with 
even the most ordinary types of night- 
prowler—frightened her into closing the 
shutter. Charlotte and maman were right. 
It was a wicked city in spite of its pictur¬ 
esqueness. She wondered how she had ever 
ventured out into its streets alone. 

After that she was at least an hour in 
going to sleep, being haunted by the face she 
had seen and by the ringing of imaginary 
chimes. Oblivion came suddenly. Yet she 
woke in the morning unrefreshed and be¬ 
fore anybody else was stirring. The house 
seemed very still—with a tense stillness that 
threatened every moment to cry out. 

“I must have had a bad dream,” she re¬ 
flected. “But I can’t remember what it 
was.” 

Then Charlotte could be heard coming 
along the hall with the usual “little break¬ 
fast,” which everybody on the Continent 
takes in bed. She paused at Ninette’s room, 
and Ninette’s usually querulous morning 
voice rose pleasantly. Evidently for once 

[ 29 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


she was beginning the day with good nature. 
Coming into Jayne’s room, Charlotte put 
down the tray and exclaimed: 

‘ ‘ Lazy one! Are you asleep ? ’ ’ 

Jayne answered nothing at all. She was 
not beginning the day good-naturedly. She 
felt that she ought to confess yesterday’s 
escapade, and the prospect was not alluring. 

Left alone, she had about come to the con¬ 
clusion that she was now old enough to bear 
the burden of a guilty conscience in silence 
—when a crash of chinaware sounded start¬ 
lingly from the adjoining chamber. 

She ran to the communicating door, and 
saw her sister lying face-downwards on the 
floor in the midst of the wreckage of a break¬ 
fast table which had been drawn up by the 
bedside. She seemed to have fainted while 
reaching out for something. 

The noise brought Charlotte, who gave 
one look and screamed. Then came Mrs. 
Cuit, the cook; Pierre Noyeau; and finally 
the father. Madame Boncoeur could be 
heard shouting from upstairs for somebody 
to come and help her down. The confusion 

[ 30 ] 


MURDER 

was indescribable, but Jayne bad already 
retired. 

It was not that any clear picture of the 
truth had penetrated her understanding, but 
she had caught sight of the box of marrons 
lying on the coverlet, and slipped it under 
her arm with some wild notion that to be 
compelled to account for it now would be 
intolerable. Turning back from her own 
room to watch the scene through a chink in 
the door, she saw her sister about to be lifted 
by a half a dozen hands, and heard a voice 
cry out: 

“No, no! We mustn’t touch her till after 
the police come.” 

It was Pierre who cried thus, and Jayne 
without further hesitation locked her door 
behind her, put the box of marrons safely in 
its drawer, and returned to bed. There, with 
her head hidden by the bedclothes, she let 
the truth take possession of her mind. 

Ninette was dead. And there was some 
dreadful mystery—something violent and 
unnatural—about it all. 


[31] 


CHAPTER III 

The Stir Which Follows Crime 
HE crises of our lives seem to be 



unique, but when viewed from a 


distance they usually fall into long- 
established classes and categories. Thus 
the startling cry of murder, shouted into the 
telephone by Pierre Noyeau, brought to 
the house—by a back way which avoided 
attention from the street—three men who 
showed not a trace of excitement among 
them. They were Boussai, the commissaire 
of police of the quarter; his clerk, or gref - 
fier; and Forgeron, his chief inspector. 

Forgeron, a huge, clumsily-built man, 
grizzled with long service, was in fact so 
cheerful as to seem almost companionable. 
Only when directly addressed by his chief 
did his manner undergo a change, and then 
it was merely to stiffen with something like 


[32] 



THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 


a military pose, indicating the importance— 
not of the case hut of the service. 

Boussai, gray-mustached, quiet and cour¬ 
teously formal, was evidently not accus¬ 
tomed to permit any familiarities. 

“Take an inventory,” he ordered, after 
examining the body as well as he could with¬ 
out disturbing it. “My clerk will bring in a 
photographer and have a snap-shot taken, 
and you can get ready to affix the seals. I’ll 
attend to sending for the physician myself.” 

Forgeron saluted, and at once set to work 
with pencil and note-book, moistening the 
lead for every item and mumbling audibly 
as he wrote. 

“Objects on the floor beside the body: 
one small table, overturned; one fancy cup 
of fine chinaware, broken into fourteen 
pieces and stained with remains of de¬ 
ceased’s breakfast chocolate; one silver 
spoon; three small cakes, unbroken; one 
cigarette, Levant brand, unsmoked, and no 
signs of either end having been wet by being 
put into the mouth; one match, Tison brandy 
unlighted; box of Tison matches, nearly fully 

[ 33 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


on foot of bed; packet of Levant cigarettes 
beside it—originally contained twenty, nine¬ 
teen still remaining, so all are accounted for . 
No burnt matches.” 

He was so absorbed in bis occupation that 
he did not notice a young girl who slipped 
in, crept along the wall and stood with her 
back against the inner door, her hands 
behind her. 

“Jayne, darling! This is no place for 
you. Go away at once/’ 

A woman in a wheeled chair occupying the 
center of the floor had spoken in a tone of 
scandalized horror, and Forgeron looked up. 

“Get the family out,” he said to the gref- 
fier, seeing that the commissaire was no 
longer present to take command. 

Then he went on with his task, first verify¬ 
ing the items and then noting them down: 

“Room handsomely furnished with bed 
in an alcove, has four openings. Two win¬ 
dows overlooking the quai have open-work 
wooden blinds secured by padlocks—a for¬ 
eign-looking arrangement. Padlock key 
hanging on hook between windows, and both 

[ 34 ] 


THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 

shutters locked. Two doors. The one lead¬ 
ing to corridor ivas standing open when we 
arrived. The other, leading to an adjoining 
apartment, locked. Keys of both doors in 
the locks and on the inside.” 

This done, he turned to the greffier, who 
stood waiting. 

“Haven’t you gone for that photographer 
yet?” 

“No, I’ve been practicing picture-taking 
myself and brought my own kit along. J ’ 

“Then I’d advise you to hurry and get 
it over with before the commissaire comes 
back.” 

The other chuckled, set a pocket camera 
on a chair so as to record the position of the 
body among its immediate surroundings, 
and touched off a flash. There was some¬ 
thing coldly brutal in the whole proceeding, 
excused perhaps by the fact that no man 
dares to permit the incidents of his profes¬ 
sion to enter very deeply into his emotions. 

A few minutes later the physician arrived, 
stood for an instant looking at the dead girl, 

[ 35 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


then turned her gently over so that he could 
see her face. 

“A beauty!” he whispered to Boussai, 
who had come in with him. “And nothing 
had happened to frighten her, either.’’ 

Indeed, Ninette’s features were composed, 
almost radiant, in spite of a few bruises 
where she had fallen. 

“Cyanide of potassium,” he added, after 
stooping close to the still-smiling lips. 
“Death was instantaneous.” 

“We must send her to the morgue, never¬ 
theless, and have your diagnosis verified by 
an autopsy.” 

“Certainement! But I’ll stake my repu¬ 
tation as a medecin-legiste that you’ll find it 
as I say. Also—but you can see that for 
yourself.” 

The body was removed, and Boussai, call¬ 
ing his greffier and the inspecteur to his side, 
turned to Madame Boneoeur, who had re¬ 
sisted all efforts to wheel her from the room. 

“May I ask — was this your favorite 
daughter?” he began abruptly. 

“Yes,” came the answer in an utterly 

[ 36 ] 


THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 

expressionless voice. “It seems to me now 
that she was certainly my favorite child.’’ 

“Was that why you brought her up in 
such a way as this?” 

“What way?” 

She turned upon the commissaire a look 
so cold, so indicative of indomitable will, 
that he lowered his tone to a less challenging 
key. 

“I don’t wish to mention anything un¬ 
pleasant. But this room—with its alcove it 
is practically a suite—impresses me as over- 
luxurious for a young girl. 

“Look!” he went on, pointing. “A gilt 
bedstead with a silk canopy, Persian rugs 
on the floor, gilt panels with mirrors on the 
walls, like the palace at Versailles. It is out 
of keeping with the rest of the house, and 
I may say with your station in life.” 

“She was our eldest, m’sieu. No doubt 
we indulged her somewhat. Her father is 
rich even if we are plain people.” 

The commissaire took the now completed 
report of Forgeron, read it carefully, went 
to a large garde-robe and examined the 

[ 37 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


yaried examples of flimsy costliness which it 
contained, and returned to his witness. 

“Ouie, madame. You indulged her as if 
she were a wealthy aristocrat. Didn’t you 
see the danger of such a course?” 

“She was a good girl,” said the mother. 

“As to that, I wish to say nothing. But 
tell me what you know of her death.” 

“The others were here before I was—ask 
them . I am partially paralyzed and had to 
wait till my husband came and helped me 
downstairs.” 

“And you know of no reason why your 
daughter should have been murdered?” 

“She wasn’t murdered, m’sieu.” 

“Hein?” 

1 ‘ She killed herself. ’ ’ 

Boussai stared. The grejjier asked to 
have the answer repeated before he put it 
down. Madame Boncoeur complied, but 
refused to say another word. The commis- 
saire finally gave her up and proceeded to 
the next room. 

Jayne, ever since returning the key to 
Ninette’s side of the door, had been lying on 

[ 38 ] 


THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 


her bed in a state bordering on collapse. She 
had exhausted her last bit of energy in per¬ 
suading Charlotte, who had followed her, to 
leave her alone. She could still see the scene 
in the adjoining apartment. The report of 
the flash-powder had frightened her still 
further, and the sound of shuffling feet, as 
of men with coarse boots coming and taking 
away a burden, filled her with numb horror. 
But for the moment she was blessedly unable 
to think. 

Boussai entered the room without knock¬ 
ing, but drew back when he saw the tear- 
stained face that was lifted in startled haste 
from the pillow. 

“Pardon, mademoiselle ” 

“What are you after?” demanded Jayne, 
scrambling to her feet. i 1 1—I didn’t do it. ’ ’ 

“Nobody supposes you did. But since we 
are here, tell us just what happened. Did 
you hear or see anything in the night?” 

“Only bad dreams.” 

“And this morning?” 

“I heard a crash—just after Charlotte 

[ 39 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


had been here with my breakfast. I went 
out by—by the hall door-” 

“Of course. The other door was locked 
on the farther side.” 

“Yes. And I found my sister-” 

“We know all about that. How many 
cakes did the maid serve you for break¬ 
fast?” 

“Three. She always brings six, and I 
take half and Ninette takes half. I’d just 
eaten one and taken a drink of choco¬ 
late-” 

“You don’t feel ill?” 

“Ill?” 

“That’s all, then. I suppose it’s useless 
to look for anything here.” 

Nevertheless he did make a hasty inspec¬ 
tion, saw that the shutters were seemingly 
fastened in the same manner as Ninette’s, 
and opened and shut one or two drawers. 

“This is what a young lady’s room should 
be, Forgeron. Simple and modest. And the 
young lady seems to match.” 

The burly inspector agreed, adding that 

[ 40 ] 





THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 

this sort didn’t get into trouble—with which 
they withdrew, closing the door after them. 

Jayne leaned weakly against the wall. 
She had felt certain that there was going to 
be a search. Why had the idea filled her 
with terror ? Why had she taken such pains 
to make it appear that nothing had passed 
from this room to the next? 

“I don’t know why I did it,” she whis¬ 
pered to herself. “There can’t be anything 
wrong with the marrons. He gave them 
to me.” 

She could hear voices in the hall. Char¬ 
lotte was telling the commissaire how she 
brought Ninette the usual things at the usual 
hour, and found the girl well and even 
unusually happy. 

“It was the same breakfast for both 
girls,” she sobbed, “and Ninette selected 
everything she wanted off of my tray with 
her own hands. ’ ’ 

Boncoeur and Noyeau explained how they 
had rushed to the scene in response to Char¬ 
lotte ’s shrieks, but Mrs. Cuit was indignant 

[ 41 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


that any question could be asked about the 
chocolate, since she had made it herself. 

‘ ‘ Come into my kitchen and see if you can 
find pizen!” she boomed in a tremendous 
alto. “Or in the epicerie around the corner 
where I bought the cakes, for that matter.” 

“There is no need to excite yourself,” said 
Boussai calmly. “We know already that 
Ninette didn’t touch the cakes, and the 
chocolate, as you say, was the same for both. 
No doubt it was excellent.” 

Jayne could not repress a smile as she 
went over to her window. How strange 
death was. It didn’t come close to one, 
really, or in the least stand in the way of 
every-day affairs. The world outside, too, 
was wonderful with soft sunlight and astir 
with that gentle gayety which is the soul of 
Paris. 

A figure was passing along the farther 
side of the quai. She watched it, struck 
with something familiar in the carriage of 
the shoulders. To her amazement, it turned 
at the corner and came back. 

The fairy prince! What could have 

[ 42 ] 


THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 

brought him there at such an hour? She 
had promised to meet him if possible that 
afternoon, but it was not yet ten o’clock. 
Certainly it wouldn’t do to have him parad¬ 
ing before that house filled with policemen. 
So she signaled him to walk on, and then 
hastily climbed down to the street, keeping 
close to the inner line of the sidewalk and 
as much out of the reach of prying eyes as 
possible. 

“ Somehow I couldn’t keep away from the 
place,” he explained, as he crossed to her 
side. 

“I can’t go with you now,” she responded, 
resisting his effort to take her arm. ‘ ‘ Some¬ 
thing dreadful has happened.” 

“Were we seen yesterday?” 

“No, no. But I can’t stop to explain. 
You must get out of sight.” 

“I must know what it is, Jayne.” 

“Well, then—walk on towards the bridge. 
I’ll meet you down by the water-side.” 

In her desperation she pushed him from 
her, and had the satisfaction of seeing him 
disappear by the flight of stone steps by the 

[ 43 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


bridge-head. There was no one in sight but 
a group of dirty urchins playing some game 
which appeared to absorb all their faculties. 
She did not notice, as she put herself in her 
lover’s wake, that the dirtiest one of the lot 
detached himself from his companions and 
began to amble with apparent aimlessness 
after her. 

She found Benson sitting on a box half 
hidden by a pile of merchandise awaiting 
transportation. 

“Nobody can see us here,” he cried, jump¬ 
ing up as she approached. “ It’s perfect . 9 ’ 

“Perfek’s the woid!” chuckled the dirty 
urchin, who was now squatting like a toad 
in an interspace between two large bales not 
three yards away. His muttered soliloquy 
was couched in Eighth avenue English—a 
most curious language for one with all the 
outward marks of a Parisian gamin. But 
as nobody caught so much as one of its syl¬ 
lables, it failed to excite remark. 

“My sister,” Jayne broke out abruptly, 
“she—how can I tell you? She died this 
morning, very suddenly.” 

[ 44 ] 


THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 


Benson sank back to bis seat. 

‘ 6 Of course, if I bad known that—but you 
never told me sbe was ill. ” 

“She wasn’t ill, and I’m glad you came 

now. There is something-” 

“ You mean that it would be useless for me 
to get an introduction to your parents at 

i 

present. Of course, dear, I understand that. 
I must go away.” 

“Go away?” 

“Yes. Don’t you see? If I’m in Paris 
I can’t keep out of sight. I would always be 
doing something wild and foolish, like I did 
this morning. We mustn’t continue to meet 
in secret. It would be certain to be found 
out and ruin everything.” 

Jayne winced before this fresh calamity 
which threatened her, and for an instant 
she forgot everything in the fear that the 
miracle of the day before hadn’t really 
happened. 

“Of course, if you want to go-” 

Benson caught her in his arms. And, with 
the novelty of a lover’s kiss upon her lips, 
she felt the horror of the morning recede 

[ 45 ] 





THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Beyond a rosy mist which seemed to cover 
the world. With an effort she recalled her¬ 
self to reality. 

“You must let me speak. It isn’t right 
for us to love each other just now. Ninette 
isn’t only dead—she was poisoned. And— 
it’s all my fault—your marrons are still in 
the house.” 

“My—what have my marrons to do with 
it?” 

“Nothing, of course. Only I let Ninette 
have them last night—she asked me for 
them. If the police find it out, or even if 
they only find the marrons, I’ll have to ex¬ 
plain how I got them. And they’ll investi¬ 
gate any story I tell. They might suspect 
that you-” 

“Oh, impossible! Why, I gave them to 
you, What motive could I have had-” 

He stopped, as if it had occurred to him 
that it might be said that the victim was not 
the intended one. 

Jayne also remained silent. A cold shiver 
had gone through every atom in her body. 
For at Benson’s words, “I gave them to 

[ 46 ] 




THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 

you ” she had remembered something. It 
was the exact circumstances under which the 
sweets were purchased. He had left her 
alone for a few minutes in the restaurant, 
and when he came back he had the box under 
his arm. 

“I don’t want a present,” she had said— 
rather more positively than her feelings 
warranted. 

And he had answered: 

“Who is making you one? These are for 
your sister. It’s time I began to square 
myself with the family.” 

She had thought he meant it as a joke, 
and yet—he had certainly seemed surprised 
when she first mentioned her name. Was it 
because he already knew Ninette? What if 
he was Ninette’s lover, unwilling to see her 
marry another, willing to take any means to 
prevent it and careless of what might hap¬ 
pen through any miscarrying of his death- 
gift? Supposing that- 

But what impossible nonsense she was 
thinking. Disloyal to the fairy prince 

[ 47 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


already! She flung herself impulsively into 
his arms. 

41 1 love you! ’ ’ she murmured. ‘ ‘ Promise 
me that you will never leave me.” 

“I’m going to make you my wife,” Ben¬ 
son returned. “But it does seem as if I 
oughtn’t to see you for a while.” 

“No, no! Promise! Promise! I could 
never go through what is going on at the 
house alone. I’ll get the marrons and throw 
them into the Seine. Then there’ll be no 
danger.” 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You 
might be followed, and that would make 
trouble. Where are they now?” 

“In a drawer in my room. The men came 
to search, but they hardly looked any¬ 
where.” 

1 ‘ Then leave them where they are. Who’d 
notice a box of candy in a girl’s room, any¬ 
way? And maybe you’re right about my 
staying. You will continue to see me?” 

“Of course. What else is there for us to 
do except to meet each other when we have 

[ 48 ] 


THE STIR WHICH FOLLOWS CRIME 

the chance? I need you more than ever 
now.” 

“Then we’d better fix on a place further 
from the house. Do you know where Varene, 
the Roman arena, is?” 

“About—and I can find out.” 

“You must be very careful.” 

“We’ll both have to be careful, for if 
maman discovers that you’ve seen me behind 
her back she’ll forbid my marrying you. 
Then we’d have to run away and I couldn’t 
bring you any property.” 

Having made which practical and alto¬ 
gether French remark, Jayne gave herself 
up to the bitter sweets of good-bye. At this 
moment the gamin was more than half-way 
back to the Boncoeur home. 


[ 49 ] 


CHAPTER IV 
Le Squelette 

HE boy’s ragged clothes attracted no 



attention in that dingy, middle-class 


quarter, nor did his bare feet make 
any noise upon the pavements. But his 
thoughts, had they echoed as loudly outside 
of his head as within it, would instantly have 
collected a crowd. For they ran something 
like this: 

“Maybe yeh ain’t de grand detective! 
Maybe not! De boss says, ‘Squelette,’ says 
he, an’ dat’s de French for Barebones, 
‘Squelette, here’s a house where a girl has 
been kilt. Stick aroun’ an’ keep yer eye 
peeled. Prob’bly yeh won’t see nothing. But 
as yer head ain’t as bony as yer legs, I think 
yeh can at least avoid bein’ seen an’ so spill- 
in’ de beans.’ Has I seen anything? Oh, 
no! Is me bean solid iv ’ry ? I ’ll tell de woild 


it ain’t.” 


150 ] 


LE SQUELETTE 

This brought him in front of the window 
from which he had seen Jayne descend. 
The usual group of idlers which a mys¬ 
terious tragedy always attracts was not in 
evidence, owing to the fact that the morgue 
wagon had come, like the policemen, by the 
back alley and given the sovereign people a 
false idea of its objective. But before he 
could even consider a plan of campaign, an 
old woman, her head bundled up in a shawl 
as if this were cold winter instead of a fine 
spring day, hobbled from a neighboring 
doorway and addressed him in French— 
French of a purity seldom heard even from 
the lips of women dressed in silks and satins. 

“Boy,” she said, “you were about to climb 
in by that window. Don’t deny it. Now 
what is there in the house of M’sieu Bon- 
coeur that you were making up your mind 
to steal?” 

“Steal?” responded Le Squelette, hastily 
recovering himself. “W’y me fadder, de 
Lord Highmuckymuck, owns de house an’ 
all de houses around here. An’ I was just 

[ 51 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


thinkin’ of collectin’ a little of de rent, may 
it please yer ladyship. ’ ’ 

“Who taught you to speak like that?” the 
old woman demanded—for the urchin’s re¬ 
marks have been given here only in a crude 
translation which scarcely does them justice. 
“It is a good imitation of Parisian patois . 
But you’re too impudent to be really 
French.” 

“Me noble fadder is responsible for de 
effect.” Le Squelette made a mocking bow. 
“He gives me so many tooters at once dat 
I spick all de languidges wid a for mi’ 
accint.” 

“Enough nonsense. You followed Jayne 
Boncoeur away from here. I saw you, if 
none of your playmates did, and followed 
you myself as closely as I dared. Now 
you’re back again after something of hers. 
What is it ? What has been going on in this 
house this morning? 

“Well, then, if you’ve lost your tongue, go 
ahead with your rent-collecting. I’ll stand 
here and signal when it’s safe to come out. 

[ 52 ] 




LE SQUELETTE 

Sometimes two heads are better than one.” 

“An’ w’at if I don’t?” 

The response was a torrent of abuse, so 
sudden and couched in such energetic terms 
that the boy could hardly believe his ears. 
Clearly this was an emergency which re¬ 
quired heroic measures, for it would never 
do to stand there wrangling—with a police¬ 
man likely to appear at any instant. He 
glanced up and down the quai. The young 
companions he had so lately left were still 
within earshot. He lifted his voice. 

“Gypsy! Gypsy!” he shouted, dancing 
quickly away from the Boncoeur gateway. 
“She savs she’ll turn us all into cats if we 

4 / 

don’t let her be.” 

His cries were answered by a chorus of 
whoops, and a dozen ragamuffins descended 
upon the hapless old woman like so many 
dogs on the scent of game. They raised a 
deafening clamor. They threw dust—and 
worse. Flesh and blood could not withstand 
such an onset, and the hag, after shaking an 
impotent fist and giving utterance to a string 
of curses which only increased the delight of 

[ 53 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


her tormentors, started to hobble away. 
Soon the hobble developed into a surpris¬ 
ingly agile run, and Le Squelette, allowing 
himself to be distanced, stood and watched 
the disturbance disappear around a corner. 
Then he returned to the window. 

It was still quiet there—for who pays any 
attention to the devilments of boys ?—so he 
climbed up, swung Jayne’s shutter open and 
leaped into her room. Ten seconds later he 
descended, closed the shutter behind him 
and strolled away, the box of marrons safe 
in his pocket. 

“Dat was w’at yeh might call shavin’ it 
thin,” he told himself. “Ought to have 
waited till night. But she’d a been home 
then. I really had to take de risk.” 

After all, a risk once passed is no risk at 
all. The feat had been rather too simple, if 
anything. What was worse, there was still 
a flaw in its accomplishment. The jeune fille 
would return and know that she had been 
robbed. Now if he could only go and buy 
another box of marrons and put it where he 
had found the first-! 


[54] 




LE SQUELETTE 

The idea filled his soul with a glow of 
determination. This would be real art. But 
how was it to be done? His stock of legal 
tender at the moment consisted of one doubt¬ 
ful franc and two sous—a scarcity due to the 
game of chance which was at an unlucky 
crisis when Jayne first crossed his line of 
vision. 

Meditating and walking slowly, he reached 
the rue Louis Philippe—only to find himself 
surrounded by the returning gamins. 

“Lache!” they cried. 

“ ’Fraid-cat!” 

“Nous Vpoursuiv’ jusqu’ pla’ St . Michel ” 

“Aw— her!” drawled Le Squelette scorn¬ 
fully in their own dialect. “Chasin’ an old 
woman. W ’at’s dat ? Come awn . I ’ll show 
yehs some real chasin’.” 

He was beset by demands to reveal his 
meaning, but he merely repeated: 

“Come awn an’ I’ll show yehs.” 

Leading the way, he crossed the Seine in 
front of the Palais de Justice and entered 
the great thoroughfare of the Latin Quarter 
known the world over as the Boul Mich. 

[ 55 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


They came to a shop in whose windows 
there was a tempting array of sweets, in¬ 
cluding several boxes of candied marrons. 
Le Squelette halted. 

Across the street near the entrance to the 
Luxembourg Gardens some workmen were 
leisurely engaged in tearing up the wooden 
block pavement. It was no unusual sight, 
for—perhaps because of an insurrectionary 
tendency handed down from the days of the 
French Revolution—the pavements of Paris 
never seem able to stay in place for any 
length of time. Le Squelette began to caper 
with delight. 

“If I was to take a piece of pav’ment, 
smash a windeh wid it an’ grab a box of 
candy, who’d do de chasin’ then?” he en¬ 
quired of his companions. 

" Fou!” 

“Brageur!” 

“Sans blague V’ 

“Aw, yeh wouldn’t dare!” 

“I’ll show yeh if I don’t dast,” he re¬ 
torted. “Will yeh promise to scatter an’ 
yell ? ’ ’ 


[56] 


LE SQUELETTE 

“Oui, oui, oui!” 

6 ‘ It ’ll be a cinch, then. Watch, now, an’ 
he ready.” 

He possessed himself of a heavy block of 
wood, flung it without a moment’s hesitation 
through the show window, and snatched the 
biggest box of marrons in sight. His retreat 
through the gardens was masked by a bevy 
of frightened, half incredulous but alto¬ 
gether admiring accessories, screaming at 
the tops of their lungs and rushing in every 
direction for quarter. 

Le Squelette ran as fast as his legs would 
carry him, left the gardens by the rue de 
Yaugirard, dived into the underground 
mazes of the Metro at the Odeon station— 
where luckily his doubtful franc passed 
muster—and did not ascend to the surface 
again till he found himself at Porte de 
Clignacourt. 

There, walking beyond the barriere —that 
huge, picturesque but useless structure 
which makes Paris technically a fort—he 
sat down in a vacant field and waited for his 
heart to stop pounding his ribs. He had 

[ 57 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

committed a fearful crime, and it was too 
soon yet to be proud of it. 

But the grass was reassuringly green and 
untrampled; bis position evidently far 
enough back from the road to guarantee a 
fair amount of privacy. A grin took the 
place of the blankly innocent look which had 
been drawn like a mask over his face, 
and—emitting a gurgling sound of satisfac¬ 
tion—he began to examine the proceeds of 
his two thefts. 

From Javne’s box not more than two or 
three marrons had been taken. So he trans¬ 
ferred a few pieces of the new stock to his 
mouth, emptied Jayne’s box into his hand¬ 
kerchief, refilled it from his own box, and 
dumped the contents of the handkerchief 
into the spare receptacle. Jayne’s box now 
contained the new marrons. He needed but 
to restore it to the room from which he had 
taken it. 

But this was a task which might well have 
made a Napoleon hesitate. Not even Le 
Squelette, his blood having had time to cool, 
felt in any hurry to proceed. For one thing, 

[ 58 ] 


LE SQUELETTE 

he still had a feeling that the whole city be¬ 
tween him and the Seine was swarming with 
outraged agents of the law, their entire vigil¬ 
ance concentrated upon himself. Eor an¬ 
other, he couldn’t shake off the impression 
that during the earlier stages of his journey 
he had been followed. 

So he pushed on farther into the country, 
found a roadside fishshop, and spent what 
remained of his franc upon a substantial 
meal. By the time he had made the trip 
back to the quai Bethune on foot, it was 
dusk. But still he hesitated. There were 
lights in the Boncoeur house, people were 
moving about, and nothing looked propi¬ 
tious. 

The next few hours he spent down by the 
river, hiding in the very crevice among the 
merchandise which had served him earlier 
in the day, and endeavoring in vain to screw 
his courage up to the sticking point. 

A bell in one of the towers of Notre Dame 
striking twelve woke him out of a nap and 
left him standing resolutely on his feet. It 
hadn’t been cowardice, after all, which had 

[ 59 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


been keeping him inactive, but merely a 
rudimentary sense of caution. 

That night Jayne was roused by a soft, 
scraping sound. She had been dreaming 
that she was a mermaid, and that some in¬ 
visible fishermen were trying to catch her in 
a net. The scraping at first had seemed to 
be that of the scales of her beautiful, fish¬ 
like body as she struggled in the meshes. 
But as she opened her eyes she thought she 
saw a figure by her bureau, bending over a 
drawer. 

She screamed. The figure scampered 
away. Could it have been only a rat gnaw¬ 
ing, and the rest pure imagination ? But in 
less than a minute the room seemed full 
of people. First came Charlotte; then a 
chunky, stupid-looking police officer she had 
heard called Forgeron, who had stayed on 
after declaring a dozen times that his work 
there was done; finally her father and Pierre 
Noyeau. 

“There was something here,” Jayne ex¬ 
plained uncertainly. “At least I thought— 
it looked like a boy bent half-double and try- 

[ 60 ] 



LE SQUELETTE 

ing to walk on the tips of his toes. But I—I 
don’t see him now.” 

Everybody agreed that it must have been 
a nightmare. Certainly there was no boy 
about, and how could he have got either in 
or out through locked shutters ? Jayne was 
soon alone again—this time with a light 
burning. 

Her first act was to examine the blind. Its 
staple hung dangling from the useless pad¬ 
lock. So the intruder had been real! Her 
fingers shook as she replaced the fastening, 
and for some time she did not dare look at 
the bureau. Since he had been bending over 
it when she caught sight of him, what could 
he have come for except the marrons ? 

To her immense relief she found them, 
apparently untouched, just where she had 
left them. But it no longer seemed a safe 
hiding-place. There was no safe hiding- 
place. What if she were to eat them ? 

She lifted one of the sweetmeats to her 
lips, only to put it aside with a sudden feel¬ 
ing of revulsion. She tried to find a com¬ 
forting reason for her fears, to sav that there 

[ 61 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


might have been an insane clerk moved by 
a wanton desire for indiscriminate destruc¬ 
tion at the shop where Benson had made his 
purchase. This was absurd. There remained 
the possibility that poison might have been 
introduced by accident during the process of 
manufacture. Even this was too far-fetched. 
The only one who could actually have pois¬ 
oned the marrons was the fairy prince him¬ 
self. And she was doubting him again. 

“I’m going to prove my faith,” she whis¬ 
pered to the empty chamber, impulsively 
devouring one of the candies to the last 
crumb. 

Immediately terror, like a searing flame, 
rushed through her whole being. It burnt 
up all the flowery fancies of her childhood, 
and under the pain of it—there, sitting on 
the edge of her bed, alone and helpless—the 
jeune fille became a woman. 

“I’m unworthy of him,’’ she moaned. ‘‘I 
ought to die.” 

And then, as the suspense grew less: 

‘ ‘ But even if I knew he was guilty, I would 
love him—and die to save him.” 

[ 62 ] 


LE SQUELETTE 

So the minutes dragged on till the last 
shred of apprehension snapped and was 
gone. Jayne fell upon her knees, pouring 
out her thankfulness in a flood of tears. 

* * He is safe. He is innocent. I ’ve been a 
silly little girl. There was nothing wrong 
with the marrons at all.” 

And, repeating this reassuring statement 
at intervals, she ate the entire contents of 
the box—a feat not without its own risk to 
any but a youthful digestion—crawled back 
into bed and slept heavily the rest of the 
night. 

Le Squelette was less happy, since from 
his standpoint the whole incident had gone 
wrong. 

In the first place it had surprised him to 
find the outer shutter seemingly locked. In 
the morning it had yielded so easily to his 
touch that he had forgotten its existence— 
certainly he hadn’t expected to find it fast¬ 
ened, or even closed, on a night which was 
rather unseasonably warm. The readiness 
with which the fastening gave way was only 
partially satisfactory. One couldn't return 

[ 63 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


a drawn staple to its holes—not from the 
outside. So it was impossible to realize his 
plan of going and coming without leaving a 
single trace. 

And afterwards, not being able to open a 
simple drawer without making a noise and 
bringing the whole house down about his 
ears—it made him blush with shame to think 
of it. Why, a little more and he would 
actually have been caught. 

It was still possible, even likely, that no¬ 
body would suspect his substitution of one 
lot of marrons for the other, since he had 
had the presence of mind to close the drawer 
in spite of all. But not even the kindest 
critic could call it a clean job. 

He paused beneath a street lamp—a long 
distance, be it said, from the Boncoeur home 
—and took out the one bit of solid evidence 
which proved that he hadn’t altogether 
wasted his time. The original marrons! 
There they lay in the box to which he had 
transferred them. 

But what was that adhering to one of the 
sticky morsels? A bit of paper, yellow— 

[ 64 ] 


LE SQUELETTE 

even brittle, as if hardly able any longer to 
hold itself together—and very neatly folded. 

Sitting down on the curb, he carefully 
spread this perplexing find out upon his 
knee—unfortunately setting aside the candy 
box as he did so. It was a program, bearing 
across its top in large, fancy lettering the 
legend: 

Theatre Chatelet 
L’ Alouette 
in 

“La, Fin de Folie” 

u Now w’at do yeh know about that!” he 
gasped as he read the date—“19 Jan., 1886.” 

How could a program of thirty-six years 
ago have come where he had found it ? He 
gave it up. Here, obviously, was something 
to be left to “de boss.” 

Yet he perused it to the end, seeking for 
some enlightening detail in the long list of 
unknown names and characters. The work 
of decipherment rather tried his faculties, 
perhaps. Certainly he heard no footsteps— 
not a sound about him. But when he turned 
to where he had set the box on the curb beside 
him —it was gone. 


[ 65 ] 




CHAPTER V 
A Discredited Official 


Z ’AFFAIRE Boncoeur” naturally 
created a sensation in the news¬ 
papers. The death of a young and 
beautiful woman under mysterious circum¬ 
stances—here were all the elements of a 
cause celebre. The writers spent more time 
in emphasizing the mystery than in trying to 
elucidate it. This was regular French jour¬ 
nalism, and to be expected. 

But the same papers contained almost 
equally voluminous accounts of the dismis¬ 
sal of one Lepadou, a chief inspector of the 
Parquet —or what would be called in Amer¬ 
ica a Headquarters detective. “Le Matin’’ 
and “La Liberte” even published his pic¬ 
ture. This was not so usual. It was even 
curious. For he had held no very important 
official position, and the cause given for his 

[ 66 ] 


A DISCREDITED OFFICIAL 

downfall—drunkenness and conduct unbe¬ 
coming an officer—was sufficiently benal. 

However, as some of the writers pointed 
out, he had shown extraordinary ability dur¬ 
ing the short term of his service, and it was 
hinted that his real offense was that of hav¬ 
ing trodden on the toes of some obscure but 
powerful ambition. Played right, these 
cards might have brought about another 
cause celebre, and won for the ex-policier a 
profitable revenge. 

But Lepadou took his cup of mingled 
glory and disgrace philosophically. That is, 
he proceeded to justify the worst that had 
been said of him, and began to drink with 
spectacular and morose energy in the most 
public places he could find. Such conduct 
was even more remarkable than his sudden 
rise to fame. 

And then, as if moved by some remaining 
trace of caution, he disappeared abruptly 
from public view. He had established him¬ 
self, as a matter of fact, as one of the habi¬ 
tues of an obscure wine-shop—a shop, as it 
chanced, whose sign displayed two green 

[ 67 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


dogs in an impossible leonine grouping. In 
this retreat be attracted no attention what¬ 
ever. His once chic citizens’ clothes, the 
regular wear of a detective en bourgeois, or 
without uniform, were by this time so dirty 
as to serve very fairly as a disguise. A neg¬ 
lected beard completed the transformation. 
And the barmaid merely saw that she had 
gained another good customer—one who 
ordered an inordinate amount of stimulant, 
paid without grumbling, and gave no trouble 
whatever. 

One afternoon a few days later, Pierre 
Noyeau himself visited Les Deux Chiens— 
for Les Deux Chiens it was. The tragic 
death of his betrothed had made him a 
marked man in his usual haunts, and here 
he might expect to find peace and oblivion. 
He had been in the place before, for it was 
near home, and no one is adverse at times to 
a taste of strange surroundings. But the 
young manufacturer had a keen eye; and 
seeing Lepadou sitting alone in a shadowy 
corner, he at once recognized him from his 
published portrait. 

[ 68 ] 



A DISCREDITED OFFICIAL 


“M’sieu,” he began politely, moving after 
a moment’s hesitation towards the detect¬ 
ive’s table, “I cannot help knowing who you 
are. Am I taking a liberty?” 

Lepadou opened one bleary eye, roused 
himself, opened the other and spoke in a gut¬ 
tural sort of French smacking strongly of 
the southern provinces where they dwell 
upon their final e’s. 

“Who in the devil’s name are you?” 

“Pierre Noyeau, m’sieu, the -fiance of 
Ninette Boncoeur.” 

Noting with surprise that the statement 
made no impression, he continued: 

‘ ‘ Surely you know the name ? The press 
has been sufficiently full of it.” 

“And I’ve been sufficiently full of other 
things not to read the newspapers. What 
do you want?” 

“Your help.” 

Noyeau half rose and leaned forward 
across the table, his voice showing a barely 
controlled excitement. 

“My fiancee is dead. Is it possible you 
have not heard of it? Can’t you give a few 

[ 69 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


hours—even a few minutes of your time to 
helping me unravel one of the deepest mys¬ 
teries which ever distressed a human being ? 

“Her mother claims that she took her own 
life, and the family, the police, even the 
newspapers seem to agree with her. But I 
know it isn’t true.” 

“Since you know so much and are so 
familiar with my face, M’sieu Noyeau, I’m 
astonished that you’re not aware that you’re 
speaking to a private citizen. If you’re not 
satisfied with the way the case is being 
handled, why don’t you complain to the com - 
missaire, the procureur de la republique—or 
go to the devil?” 

Lepadou made an impatient gesture as he 
spoke and sank back into his corner as if to 
resume his nap. Noyeau gave a low cry and 
shook him. 

“The commissaire is an imbecile, a mere 
follower of routine, one of those who claim 
that she committed suicide rather than give 
herself to me. And how can I get the ear of 
the procureur ? 

“If you would only listen, m’sieu. She 

[ 70 ] 



A DISCREDITED OFFICIAL 

was the most beautiful woman in Paris. 
Why should she kill herself ? I adored her. 
We were happy. She was about to become 
my wife. 

“What if some wretched cabal has dis¬ 
missed you from the police? You are still 
the incomparable Lepadou. And I beg you 
to find out the truth—to crush these lies 
which are making it impossible for me to 
live.” 

Noyeau produced a pocketbook and shoved 
several billets de banque across the table. 
The other stared at them undecidedly for a 
few minutes, swept them into his pocket and 
lounged over to a water-tap behind the bar, 
where he thoroughly soused his tangled hair. 
When he returned he looked more disrepu¬ 
table than before, but his eyes were shining 
—whether with avarice or intelligence it 
would have been difficult to say. 

“Parlez,” he ordered. “What sort of a 
place is this Boncoeur house ? Who lives in 
it?” 

“It is a four-story building with one side 
facing the street, but opening only on a 

[71] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


court-yard/’ Noyeau plunged eagerly into 
his narrative. 6 ‘ The family occupies all but 
the ground floor, which is given over to the 
concierge and his wife—an old couple of un¬ 
questionable honesty. M’sieu Boncoeur 
owns the house, and indeed all the houses on 
the court, for though he lives very simply he 
is one of the most prosperous small manu¬ 
facturers in France. 

“His son died in early manhood a few 
years ago, and since then I have tried to take 
a son’s place in the business, as I soon hoped 
to do in the home. Madame Boncoeur is an 
invalid. She employs a maid and a cook, 
both old and trusted servants. There were 
two daughters—Jayne, who is nearly of age, 
and my Ninette, who was a year older. That 
is the entire household.” 

He went on to describe the relative posi¬ 
tions of the sisters’ rooms, and how Char¬ 
lotte had served the petit dejeuner on the 
fatal morning. Lepadou interrupted. 

“Tell me just how it was done. Did she 
have both breakfasts with her? Were thew 

[ 72 ] 




A DISCREDITED OFFICIAL 

both on one tray? On two trays? I want 
details.” 

“ There was one large tray, m’sieu, with 
two breakfasts on it—a pot of chocolate and 
a plate of small cakes. Ninette was still in 
bed, but not asleep. The maid knocked, and 
she got up to unlock the door. ’ ’ 

“She slept with her door locked?” 

“Always. There was a robbery in the 
house a long time ago and some of her things 
were taken. Since then the family has been 
timid.” 

“Go on.” 

“Well, Ninette unlocked the door and 
went back to bed, and while Charlotte held 
the tray she took what she wanted and put 
it on a small table by the bedside.” 

“You mean she took the necessary dishes 
and so forth, poured out her own chocolate 
and helped herself to the cakes?” 

“Mais oui.” 

“But you’ve only the maid’s word for it. 
This Charlotte could have poisoned one of 
the cakes and given it to her.” 

“There were no cakes missing,” said Noy- 

[ 73 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

eau. “She was found to have eaten noth- 
mg. 

“Charlotte’s word again. She did the 
original counting.” 

“No, the cook’s also. The cook prepared 
the chocolate and bought the cakes. There 
were a dozen. Six were left in the kitchen. 
Three were served to Jayne—she corrobo¬ 
rates Charlotte’s testimony as to this. Three 
were found in Ninette’s room untouched. 
An analysis has revealed nothing wrong 
either in the cakes or in the chocolate adher¬ 
ing to the remains of the broken cup. ’ ’ 

“What broken cup?” 

“The cup which Ninette took from the 
tray. It lay beside her on the floor where 
she had fallen. Yet the autopsy shows cya¬ 
nide poisoning.” 

Noyeau started to describe the alarm and 
the position in which the body was found, 
but again the detective broke in. 

“Have the authorities found out where 
the girl could have obtained the poison? 
Cyanide is not sold everywhere and to every¬ 
body, like sugar-plums. ’ ’ 

[ 74 ] 


A DISCREDITED OFFICIAL 


“Unfortunately,” resumed Noyeau, lift¬ 
ing a grief-contorted face, “she often visited 
her father’s usines. He is, I omitted to state, 
a chemical manufacturer, and poisons there 
are—like sugar-plums as you say.” 

“Then you haven’t any evidence that the 
police are wrong?” 

“No; that is why I appeal to you. The 
evidence points to suicide. But in my heart 
I know that all these appearances are the 
result of devilish cunning.” 

“Whose?” 

4 ‘ I cannot say. She was so sweet and lovely 
that it is hard to believe she could have had 
an enemy in the world. But may it not have 
been her very loveliness which destroyed 
her?” 

“She had a secret lover, you mean?” 

“Not a lover, but one who loved her—who 
killed her rather than see her given to me. 
We know she wasn’t poisoned by the break¬ 
fast. But what if somebody had sent her— 
a box of candy, for instance ? ’ ’ 

“Was a box of candy found in her room?” 

“No.” 


[75] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Then there’s no sense in that. Silly to 
suppose things that don’t ’xist.” 

Lepadou was struggling to keep his eyes 
open, but the fumes of alcohol seemed once 
more to be mounting to his brain. 

Noyeau sighed despairfully. 

“I had hoped, m’sieu, that you would see 
clearly where I can only feel. But come at 
least and look over the place. A thousand 
unnoticed things might speak to you. Every¬ 
body knows that you can discover much that 
is hidden from common men. ’ ’ 

The detective beckoned to a waiter, or¬ 
dered another drink, and when he had 
poured it down his throat replied succinctly: 

‘ ‘ Listen. I’m sober now for a minute, and 
I’m sorry for you. Naturally you can’t 
imagine a nice young girl who lets you kiss 
her not wanting to be your wife. But what 
can you know, with your little experience, 
about the heart of a jeune fille? 

“You are her father’s right-hand man. 
You were set on the marriage. The parents 
were set on the marriage. The girl, duti¬ 
fully brought up, was made to think that she 

[ 76 ] 


A DISCREDITED OFFICIAL 


was set on the marriage. And all the while 
she can’t bring herself to it—finds out, at the 
critical moment, that she would rather die. 

“You want to think she was murdered. 
But your own story points all the other way. 
Servants old and trustworthy, girl locked in 
her room, ate no breakfast, no poison found 
anywhere but in her stomach, and she could 
get cyanide any time at her father’s factor¬ 
ies—it’s suicide plainly enough. You’ll have 
to get over it. ’ ’ 

Lepadou fell back against the wall, as if 
the last glass, momentarily stimulating, had 
been the final straw and broken the back of 
sobriety altogether. Pierre Noyeau re¬ 
garded him silently for several minutes, then 
got up and left the wine-shop. 


[77] 


CHAPTER VI 
The Death Cup 

W HEN his visitor had gone, Lepadou 
began to behave in a remarkable 
manner for a drunken man. In¬ 
stead of falling yet deeper into sleep, he drew 
himself together, paid his bill and sallied out 
into the street, his legs growing steadier with 
every step. One might have thought that his 
debauch had awakened his conscience, for 
he made straight for the cathedral. 

The interior of Notre Dame at this hour 
was nearly dark save for here and there a 
bunch of candles burning before some 
shrine. The detective took a candle from a 
supply awaiting devotees near the entrance, 
dropped the price of it into the slit of a con¬ 
tribution-box, and continued up the north 
aisle. 

Reaching the transept, he paused and 
looked around. The immense building was 

[78] 


THE DEATH CUP 


empty. There may, indeed, have been a 
dozen people kneeling at the different altars, 
but so intent were they upon their prayers 
that they counted no more than so many ad¬ 
ditional pieces of statuary. No one had paid 
him the slightest attention. 

He approached the foot of a tower-like 
pulpit near the choir, thrust an elbow 
against one of the panels, and disappeared. 
For the panel was hinged, and gave upon a 
tiny cubby-hole used to hide the athletic con¬ 
tortions of the man who kept the bellows of 
the great organ filled during service time. 

Lepadou had noted this man on a visit to 
the cathedral several weeks before, and—the 
panel chancing to be open—had been inter¬ 
ested in the quaint contrivance—two great 
treadles, from one to the other of which the 
operator continually shifted his weight— 
that still defied such modern innovations as 
the automatic motor. 

Now, however, the nook became the scene 
of activities modern in the extreme. The 
candle was lighted and stuck to a proj ecting 
beam. A pocket case containing a bottle of 

[ 79 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


liquid soap, a lather brush, a safety razor, 
a tiny clothes brush and several other toilet 
articles was produced. The neglected 
growth of beard disappeared, the dust-cov¬ 
ered coat and trousers became respectable, 
the dirty slouch hat of indescribable color¬ 
ing transformed itself when turned the other 
side out into a head-covering of decent black. 

At the same time the detective’s very fea¬ 
tures seemed to undergo a change. His fa¬ 
cial muscles altered like wax under a model¬ 
er’s fingers, giving rise to a novel arrange¬ 
ment of elevations, depressions, creases and 
those thousand and one other details by 
which man ordinarily identifies his fellow 
beings. The very set of his ears appeared to 
be different, and when a pair of gold-rimmed 
spectacles had added a last touch to the meta¬ 
morphosis, he looked for all the world like 
a slightly seedy middle-aged gentleman, 
trained for one of the learned professions 
but compelled by stress of circumstances to 
earn a difficult living as a private tutor to 
dull students who needed a crutch on their 
march for academic honors. At the same 

[ 80 ] 


THE DEATH CUP 


time there was not an observable trace of 
make-up, for the art of disguise as practiced 
to-day by those who chiefly use it—the mas¬ 
ter ftlenrs of the French police—has long 
since abandoned everything savoring of the 
theater. 

With a forlorn sort of dignity, Lepadou 
set out towards the quai Bethune, bowing to 
the few he met like a would-be celebrity and 
occasionally pausing under some lamp to 
read a book which he had taken from his 
pocket. The pose of half-cracked savant , 
carefully cultivating eccentricities in the 
hope of being mistaken for one of the great, 
was so perfect that several passers-by were 
unable to repress a smile. 

Near the corner of the rue de FHotel de 
Ville he came upon an urchin playing by a 
small mud-puddle in the gutter. 

“ Splash my boots, Squelette,” he let fall 
in English, while seeming to be absorbed in 
his volume. “And as I’m scolding you, 
make your report. ’ ’ 

The boy picked up a bit of board, brought 
it down smartly upon the surface of the pud- 

[ 81 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


die, and squealed ecstatically at the damage 
which ensued. 

But he didn’t feel ecstatic. This was the 
second time he had been called upon to re¬ 
port since the unaccountable disappearance 
of the box of candied chestnuts, and his con¬ 
science troubled him. 

For he had omitted mentioning the exploit 
at all, hoping that luck would soon enable 
him to recover the lost evidence. He felt 
sure that the gypsy had it. No ordinary 
human being, he reasoned, could have played 
him such a trick. Yet he trembled hourly 
for fear he might hear of the sweets through 
a trail of death left behind them among per¬ 
fectly innocent people. Between the absence 
of such news and the continued invisibility 
of the old woman with a shawl, the boy led 
a miserable existence. 

But how could he even now recount an 
adventure which had begun so brilliantly 
and ended in such a disgraceful fashion? 
He couldn’t. An artist’s pride held him 
back. So he merely splashed the water and 
howled, according to orders. 

[ 82 ] 


THE DEATH CUP 


“ Confound your impudence, you’ve 
ruined my clothes!” cried Lepadou, seizing 
the urchin in mock fury by the collar. 

“Laissez faire, m’sieu . Ca n’ fait rien/’ 
squawked the ragamuffin. 

Then under his breath in Eighth avenue- 
ese: 

“Dev ain’t nothin’ to report exceptin’ two 
things. But they’s kind of funny.” 

“What two?” 

“Don’t choke me, boss. De commissaire 
says it’s suicide, and-” 

“I know that. But presumably the com¬ 
missaire isn’t such a fool as not to be able to 
say one thing and mean another. ’ ’ 

“Well, anyway he’s pretendin’ to think 
it’s suicide, an’ yet he’s keepin’ out of de 
papers de one t’ing yeh might say goes to 
prove it. For de ’topsy showed dat dis 
young Miss Ninette was—aw, it ain’t just de 
t’ing t’ say.” 

‘ 1 Say it, nevertheless. ’ ’ 

“Well, she was either married or a wild 
’un, as everybody ’d a knowed soon if she 
hadn’t died.” 


[83] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“How did you learn all this?” 

Lepadou released the boy’s collar and 
began to busy himself with his clothes brush. 
Le Squelette knelt down and wiped his 
victim’s shoes with a dirty handkerchief, 
apparently experiencing regret. 

“I got a job wid de concierge runnin’ er¬ 
rands, an’ I heered de commissaire and de 
doctor talkin’. But dey didn’t see me, ’cause 
I was hid in de dirty-clothes basket. ’ ’ 

‘ * Good work. And what’s the other funny 
thing you learned ?” 

“It’s de way the fam’ly cottons to de sui¬ 
cide t’eory. All of ’em seems to like it.” 

“I know one who doesn’t seem to.” 

“Who? W’at’ve yeh found out, boss? 
[Yeh must be up to somethin’ or yeh wouldn’t 
be hidin’ out so far from de place.” 

“It isn’t very far, and I wasn’t hiding so 
well that—say a very shrewd and observant 
person couldn’t find me.” 

“Someone who was lookin’ for yeh, eh?” 

“Perhaps. But I’m afraid I didn’t dive 
deep enough. Along comes Pierre Noyeau 
this afternoon and spots me right off.” 

[84] 


THE DEATH CUP 


“Him? Golly! Maybe lie’s been keepin’ 
bis eyes open. Maybe be done it. ’ ’ 

“Committed tbe murder, you mean, and 
tben looked me up and banded me out a story 
calculated to make me lose interest in tbe 
case?” 

“Gee! What story ’d be tell yeb, boss?” 1 

“He pretended to think it was murder, 
and gave only facts pointing to suicide. 
What do you say to calling it a clever at¬ 
tempt to make me think it was suicide ? ’ ’ 

“Yeb’re right, boss. It’s him, and-” 

“And be killed tbe wealthy girl be was 
engaged to—be, tbe one person that her con¬ 
dition needn’t offend—so as to keep himself 
from falling heir to her father’s fortune, I 
suppose?” 

Le Squelette clenched bis fists and stamped 
with bis feet, on tbe verge of angry tears. 

“Yeh’ve been stringin’ me again. I al- 
wus forgets de motive. W’at d’ yeb want to 
git me goin’ for?” 

Lepadou chuckled. 

“ It’s all right, old scout. But you’d bet¬ 
ter go on with your story. ’ ’ 

[ 85 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“It's only dis. If dey believed she really 
done it herself, wouldn’t it scare ’em? Dev’s 
all more or less relig’us, an’ wid de relig’us, 
I alwns thought, suicides is supposed to go 

to de hot place. Now Jayne-” 

Le Squelette broke off, undid his polishing 
with another splash from the puddle and 
started away, whooping like an Indian. He 
had caught sight of the commissaire’s in¬ 
spector, the slow-moving, ponderous Forge- 
ron, looming in the distance. 

“Has that p’tit gosse been spatterin’ 
you*?” demanded the inspector, hurrying 
forward just in time to dodge a mud-ball 
flung with major league accuracy at his head. 

“Mille pipes de didbles! I’ll learn him-” 

“You couldn’t catch him, I’m afraid,” 
said Lepadou, touching the other’s arm. 
“And—don’t you know your friends?” 

Forgeron started, then flushed with morti¬ 
fication, for he saw his interlocutor smile and 
with the smile all his figure slowly relax and 
a familiar countenance rise before his eyes 
out of a set of features that had seemed 
entirely strange. 


[86] 





THE DEATH CUP 


“You!” he exclaimed, in a tone not un¬ 
mingled with awe. 

“ Yes, and you’d better not be seen talking 
with me. It might not do you any good to 
have it reported at headquarters.” 

Forgeron looked hurt. 

‘‘There’s some that may feel that way 
about it. But there’s a good many more 
that’d be proud to be seen in your company. 
And I ain’t forgotten how you went out of 
your way more’n once to do me a friendly 
turn.” 

“In that case—but I’d rather not stand 
talking here on my own account. Isn’t there 
a place where we can go for a private chat ? 
I’m looking for information.” 

An eager invitation having been given and 
accepted, they were soon in the inspecteur 
du commissiariaV's own quarters, a bachelor 
establishment near Place Sebastapol, though 
Lepadou insisted on lagging half a block be¬ 
hind all the way. Forgeron barely waited 
for his arrival before peeling off his coat and 
getting busy with a complicated assortment 
of skillets, saucepans and pots over a gas 

[87] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


stove that stood in one corner of the single 
room, proudly announcing that he did his 
own cooking, and prophesying that dinner 
wouldn’t be found “altogether bad for a bit 
of police work.” 

Lepadou, after taking one mouthful of the 
ragout which was shortly placed before him, 
laid down his knife and fork. 

“Forgeron,” he cried, “I’ve always liked 
you. But you couldn’t detect the Louvre if 
somebody should happen to mislay it. And 
here I find you’ve got a streak of real art in 
you all the time. What do you mean by hid¬ 
ing it? And why don’t you leave crook¬ 
chasing to whelps like me that are good for 
nothing else?” 

The host tried to conceal his satisfaction, 
hut failed. His suggestion of a possible de¬ 
fect discoverable in the salad was crude in 
its insincerity. Finally he let a broad grin 
have its way with his features. 

‘ ‘ I reckon I can put together a recipe now 
and then, for a fact,” he admitted as he sat 
down. “Hope you’ll like the seasonin’ of 
them potatoes. First boil ’em, then, when 

[ 88 ] 


THE DEATH CUP 


they’re cold, put ’em on an asbestos lid to 
stew—slow, that’s the secret—with milk and 
butter and plenty of salt and pepper. The 
flavor must be cooked in, understand ? After 
that, you’ve only got to heat ’em up and 
there’s something to eat and no trouble. But 
let’s hear about you. The story that you’ve 
been fired for bein’ drunk doesn’t go down.” 

“I’ve been trying to cook up a dish of my 
own,’’ responded Lepadou, falling to. “You 
might call it a 'bouilldbaise . I’ve got the 
recipe, but I haven’t got the fish,” 

“Fish?” 

“Yes. Sol’ve been setting nets. I began 
in 1910, and haven’t a thing yet to show for 
my trouble.” 

“You don’t mean 1910?” 

“I do. I was a young man in Yew York 
then, working on one of my first murder 
cases. Don’t know why I should be telling 
you all this. I’ve taken pains enough to 
keep my identity rather in the dark. But a 
man must talk things over with somebody 
now and then, and you are the only one I 

[89] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

seem to feel like trusting—on tins side of the 
water, that is.” 

“Go on,” said Forgeron. 

“Well, the victim was a young girl, just 
as in this Boncoeur case. She was found 
dead with a lot of broken china around her. 
There was never any conviction—but later 
there was another murder. Young girl 
again. Broken china again. And again no 
conviction. Do you see what kind of a dish 
I’m trying to concoct?” 

“I see you think it was the same shark 
both times. And you’re still trying to cook 
—catch him, that is?” 

Lepadou nodded, helped himself to more 
potatoes, and continued: 

“After a while there was a third murder, 
and this time I was able to examine into it 
more thoroughly. I even thought I spotted 
my shark. Rufus Marie he called himself. 
He disappeared, and I followed him to Eu¬ 
rope. Luckily I’d learned to speak French 
as a boy—from an old nurse born in the 
Bouches du Rhone country. So I went to 
Marseilles. As soon as I dared to risk it, 

[90] 


THE DEATH CUP 

I began to pass myself off as a Frenchman, 
and came to Paris. I’d had some official 
dealings with the Chief of Police, and he se¬ 
cured me an appointment. I wanted all the 
machinery of the service at my call. ’ ’ 

“It was clever,” said Forgeron, with the 
air of one delighted to be initiated thus into 
the circle of secret politics. 

“Clever maybe. But it didn’t work. Your 
infernal newspapers got hold of some minor 
cases that I’d taken up just for the looks of 
things, and made me conspicuous. It was 
like going about with a brass band. I had 
to play drunkard and cocaine fiend and get 
myself discharged.” 

“Then you’re really not out?” 

“I am. But I don’t believe you’re seri¬ 
ously risking your future by having me to 
dinner.” 

“Clever!” repeated Forgeron, beginning 
to pour the coffee. “But if this Marie is 
worth going to all this trouble just to throw 

dust in his eyes, he must be-” 

“Wait! Did you ever hear of a French 
crook called Le Caillou?” 

[91] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Hear of liim? The man that’s said to 
butcher women for the fun of it? There’s a 
standing reward of fifty thousand francs for 
his capture, offered by one of the news¬ 
papers. He got his nickname because folks 
say he has no more heart than a flint.” 

“No, Forger on, his nickname came from 
his faculty of disappearing like a pebble 
thrown into a pond and leaving only ripples 
behind it. Caillou means pebble as well as 
flint.” 

“Maybe so. But he’s only a humbug, any¬ 
way. Nobody ever set eyes on him.” 

Lepadou leaned forward towards his host. 

“Nobody thinks they ever set eyes on him, 
because nobody knows who he really is or 
what motive actuates him. And people used 
to say that the sea-serpent was a humbug. 
They thought it too horrible to be real. Now 
we know that it’s the giant squid. Marie is 
even more like a squid than like a shark, for 
the squid hides his trail in darkness of his 
own making—squirts a sort of ink into the 
water, you know.” 

“But do you really mean he’s Le Caillou? 

[92] 


THE DEATH CUP 


There aren’t always broken dishes in the 
Caillou cases. ’’ 

“There’s always a broken something . 
Last time it was a butter crock. And Le 
Gaillou was never heard of in France till 
Marie ceased to be heard of in America. 

“When I first came over here, I couldn’t 
pick up a paper without imagining I saw 
traces of The Squid’s work in one of the 
items, and I haven’t got over the idea of one 
of his tentacles being always near me even 
yet. Do you observe that I’m sitting with 
my back to the wall? I’ve had some funny 
experiences which made me think that I 
wasn’t doing all the fishing, and it’s been a 
long while since I was able to see an unex¬ 
pected shadow fall over my shoulder without 
a chill going down my back. Why, even 
since I’ve been sitting here I’ve been think¬ 
ing what enormous hands you have, and how 
easily you could strangle me if you caught 
me off my guard.” 

Forgeron laughed boisterously — and 
helped himself to a second glass of the liq¬ 
ueur which served as a pousse cafe. 

[93] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Lepadou went on: 

“You remember the morning the body of 
this Ninette Boncoeur was found?” 

‘ ‘ The twenty-third. ’ ’ 

“Well, late in the afternoon of the twenty- 
second, I got on the track of a man I thought 
might be Marie. Don’t know why I thought 
so unless it was something crooked about his 
arms and legs that I’d noticed in another 
suspect once before. He didn’t look at all 
like the Marie I had a glimpse of once or 
twice in America. But I’ve long since given 
up going by appearances, and I followed 
him. 

“That night he walked all over Paris with 
me at his heels. Nothing happened till he 
came to the quai Bethune. There he hesi¬ 
tated and looked up at a certain window. 
That was all. And afterwards I lost him. 
He simply walked into a residence up near 
L’Etoile, using a latch-key.” 

6 i Whose residence ? ’ ’ 

“It doesn’t matter. The man who lives 
there is one of the best-known statesmen in 
France, and no criminal, I assure you. My 

[94] 


THE DEATH CUP 


first man must simply have dissolved en 
route and left me to pick up the statesman’s 
trail without knowing the difference, for I 
rang the bell and found that it was really he 
who had just come in. 

6 ‘ The next morning I was prowling around 
that house on the quai Bethune when I heard 
cries. It turned out to be the Boncoeur 
house. I managed to find out what had hap¬ 
pened—even saw you and Boussai arrive. 
And soon the papers were out with the par¬ 
ticulars, together with a lot of nonsense 
about myself. What do you think of it?” 

Lepadou’s voice had become weirdly thin 
and harsh. Forgeron got up, fussed with the 
gas—his menage didn’t boast electricity— 
and complained that the light was poor. His 
face had taken on a sallow tinge. 

“It’s nonsense,” he declared. “But I 
don’t like it. It gives me the shivers.” 

“What gives you the shivers?” 

“This talk of yours about giant squids and 
getting on the track of murders before they 
happen. Because lately I’ve had-” 

“You’ve had similar experiences?” 

[95] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Not exactly. But I Ve had the notion in 
one or two cases that we weren’t gettin’ to 
the bottom of things.” 

For several minutes nothing more was 
said. In the silence the hissing of the gas- 
jet overhead, at first inaudible, grew to a 
roar. The sounds made by a pedestrian 
passing in the street had a startling distinct¬ 
ness. It was Forgeron who finally spoke. 

“Ninette Boncoeur was certainly mur¬ 
dered—and without ever knowin’ what was 
coming. Suicides’ faces don’t smile the way 
hers did. Boussai never says anything, but 
it’s easy to see what he thinks from the way 
he keeps up the watch at the house. What 
I can’t figure out is how it was done.” 

Lepadou, who had noticed his compan¬ 
ion’s failure to mention a certain detail of 
the medical report, wondered if that also 
could have been kept from him, but all he 
said was : 

“Where is the cup into which Ninette 
poured the chocolate?” 

“Right here in this room, but there’s noth¬ 
ing wrong with it. The chemist was very 

[96] 



THE DEATH CUP 


thorough. He washed not only the cup but 
the plate, the spoon and the napkin—every¬ 
thing separately, putting all the pieces of 
each dish in a basin of water by themselves 
and then analyzin’ the water.” 

“But may I see it?” 

“Certainement.” 

Forgeron unlocked a closet and brought 
out a wooden box into which the fragments 
of the broken china had been deposited. 
Sorting the pieces of the cup from the other 
debris, he laid them carefully upon a vacant 
section of the tablecloth. 

“He discovered nothing?” asked Lepa- 
dou. 

“No.” 

“Yet I have.” 

“What?” 

“That the newspapers were right in de¬ 
scribing this as very fine china—‘an antique, 
artistically decorated and costing consider¬ 
able money, ’ one of them said. ’ ’ 

“Ha-ha! Yes, them fellows are exact. I 
thought you meant something serious, 
though I knew there couldn’t be anything 

[97] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


wrong with the cup. That’s why I didn’t 
take the trouble to turn it in at the commis¬ 
sariat.” 

“Did you ever try to put it together?” 
“No, I-” 

“You didn’t, which was very natural be¬ 
cause you had no idea of what to expect. 
Let’s try it now.” 

With which remark he began to adjust 
fragment after fragment to its proper place, 
moving slowly and with great care so as not 
to impair the delicate edges of fracture, 
while Forgeron, looking somewhat bewil¬ 
dered, kept the work together by making a 
supporting cup of his hands. When finished, 
the reconstruction stood perfect, and only 
needed a little cement to be serviceable again. 

“But there are fourteen pieces here!” ex¬ 
claimed Lepadou, counting. 

“Yes, there were fourteen in the inven¬ 
tory.” 

“You’re certain of that?” 

For answer Forgeron with an air of con¬ 
siderable injury produced a notebook and 
pointed to the entry: 

[98] 





THE DEATH CUP 


“One cup of fine chinaware, broken into 
fourteen pieces.” 

“But,” objected Lepadou, “there only 
ought to be thirteen.” 

Forgeron guffawed. 

“If you ain’t been makin’ me walk all of 
this time! I might have known you was 
jokin’. Lookin’ for an unlucky number! 
You got me good.” 

But seeing that his guest had become lost 
in thought, he put the relics of the crime 
back in the closet and began to clear away 
the dinner. Then he set a tiny alarm-clock, 
pulled off his boots, threw himself down on 
the bed and was soon snoring. 

It was past eleven when the clock, with a 
clatter entirely disproportionate to its size, 
aroused the two men—one from his nap and 
the other from his meditations. 

“Come along with me,” said the refreshed 
giant. “I’ve got to go on watch at the Bon- 
coeurs’ and can pass you in as one of us. We 
can easily arrange it so the man I relieve 
won’t see you. ’ ’ 

“It’s very good of you,” yawned Lepadou, 

[ 99 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


lighting a cigarette. 1 ‘ But my time belongs 
to the giant squid.” 

4 4 You said it was The Squid you tracked 
to the quai Bethune. I thought-” 

“ Coincidence and imagination. If it had 
been The Squid, that cup of yours, I tell you, 
would have had thirteen pieces. I’m going 
to say good-night. ’ ’ 

Leaving the other staring at him uncer¬ 
tainly, Lepadou picked up his hat and start¬ 
ed off. The streets were very quiet, for it 
had begun to rain and a chilly wind from the 
north kept late pleasure-seekers under cover. 
He noted the unusual absence of pedestrians. 
It was an odd chance to find himself in that 
comparatively busy section so absolutely 
alone. 

An impulse to look behind him seized him 
so suddenly that he resisted it. 

“I’m getting childish,” he told himself. 

4 This is what comes from burning the candle 
at both ends. I need a few weeks’ rest. ” 

But being disinclined to go to his lodgings, 
and having no immediate destination in 
yiew, he was unconsciously following the 

[ 100 ] 



THE DEATH CUP 


route to the quai Bethune. It was difficult, 
even now that he had decided to throw up the 
case, to get his thoughts away from it. He 
had definitely decided that it had nothing to 
do with Marie, and for reasons much more 
clear than any he had confided to Forgeron. 
But his interest persisted, and this preoccu¬ 
pation naturally guided his steps. 

Some small object upon the sidewalk, 
struck by his foot, went tinkling several 
paces in advance, and when he came to it 
again he stooped to see what it was. As he 
did so, the vague threat of his surroundings 
manifested itself in tangible form. 

“Pin-n-g!” 

A winged bit of metal sang past his ear. 

There was no report—nothing in all the 
wide world to be heard save the lingering 
echo of that ill-aimed bullet. Ill-aimed ? If 
he had not happened to stoop at just the 
right instant to pick up what proved to be 
merely a two-sous piece, he would in all 
probability have been shot through the head. 

But there was now the sound of hurrying 

[101] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


footsteps, and turning he saw Forgeron 
running to overtake him. 

“Did you hear that?” panted the veteran. 
i 1 Something went past me. I thought it was 
a bullet.” 

“I heard something . Where were you? 
Did you see anybody ?” 

“I was just this side of the corner back 
there, and not a soul was in sight. It must 
have been fired from an air-gun.” 

“Then,” said Lepadou, “it looks as if I 
was hot on the trail—though what trail 
I don’t know. Somebody’s disturbed. I’ll 
have to look further into this Boncoeur busi¬ 
ness after all.” 


[102] 


CHAPTER YII 
In Ninette’s Room 

A N investigation of the neighborhood 
resulted in nothing. So they pro¬ 
ceeded on their way. Porgeron went 
ahead to relieve the watch, and when the 
coast was clear Lepadou was quietly admit¬ 
ted into Ninette’s room, which was fairly 
ablaze with electric lights. 

“And this,” exclaimed the detective, “is 
what the journalists almost unanimously 
describe as ‘a chamber extravagantly deco¬ 
rated in bourgeois taste!’ ” 

“Papa Boncoeur must certainly have 
made the money fly where his eldest daugh¬ 
ter was concerned,” assented Forgeron, 
seating himself in an ornate but substantial 
chair. “Look at her dresses in the garde- 
robe over there. Silks, laces, spangles—you 
never saw the like.” 

“But who furnished the ideas?” snapped 

[103] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Lepadou impatiently. “Papa Boncoeur 
hadn’t anything to do with it, or it would 
have been as ugly as it is extravagant. It’s 
unconventional, true enough, but it’s beauti¬ 
ful. Doesn’t that suggest anything?” 

“Art is out of my line,” admitted For- 
geron. 

“Well, well. I dare say you’re right, 
though where there is art there must have 
been an artist somewhere, and one doesn’t 
usually find them in the homes of the newly- 
rich middle-class. How’s the rest of the 
house?” 

“Plain as plain.” 

“Jayne’s room?” 

“Plainer.” 

“Hm! It’s a queer case. But let me see 
everything you found here.” 

Forgeron produced a key and was about 
to get up. Lepadou prevented him, took the 
key himself, and went over to an escritoire 
which the other indicated. 

“Tison brand,” he observed, taking a box 
of matches from a drawer which he had un- 

[104] 


IN NINETTE’S ROOM 

locked. ‘ ‘ Why haven’t you kept these under 
seals?” 

‘‘ I—why, none of them were burned. The 
poison couldn’t have come from them.” 

Lepadou held up one of the matches— 
which was short, thick-set, rather like tiny 
specimens of the plant called the cat-tail— 
and struck it on the box. It burned for a 
full ten seconds with a white, sputtering 
flame, then went abruptly out. 

“It’s a suggestive sort,” he remarked. 
“Of course you know what they’re for?” 

“Yes—to use in the wind. You can’t blow 
’em out.” 

“Exactly. And consequently in Paris, 
where there is seldom a high wind, they are 
very far from common. Most people dislike 
the Tison, for if you’re not used to them you 
wait instinctively for the chemical to burn 
off—and find yourself with a dead stick in 
your hand before even trying to get a light. 
Not the style of match you’d expect to find 
in a young lady’s possession. Mademoiselle 
Boncoeur cannot have smoked out of doors. 
It’s my opinion that she has recently paid a 

[105] 


THE BONCOEUK AFFAIR 


visit to the south, where the mistral blows so 
much that often you can get no matches but 
Tisons in the shops. And here’s a box of 
Levant cigarettes.” 

44 They’ve been examined, too,” insisted 
Forgeron. 4 4 She seems to have been gettin’ 
ready for a smoke, but was waitin’ for break¬ 
fast before startin’ in.” 

4 4 But Levants are also common in the 
south. Do you know if she had been away 
lately?” 

The giant blinked awkwardly. 

44 I didn’t ask, and I haven’t heard any¬ 
body say. It ain’t me that’s in charge of 
this case.” 

44 Of course not,” said Lepadou. 44 You’d 
never have overlooked two tricks like these 
if you’d been relying upon yourself.” 

He returned to the escritoire in time to 
hide a smile, but found nothing further 
until, having locked the first drawer, he 
opened another. There, under a litter of 
odds and ends, was a scrap-book. 

Evidently it was a relic of childhood, for 
it began with several pages of colored pic- 

[ 106 ] 



IN NINETTE’S BOOM 


tures unskillfully pasted on. But page by 
page the art in arranging and selecting bet¬ 
tered. Then came a period in which mere 
picture-cards gave place to studies in black 
and white from the art papers, and these to 
newspaper clippings—chiefly poetry. 

The date attached to the clippings showed 
that the book had been abandoned by its 
owner several years ago. But the last clip¬ 
ping of all was of a different character, and 
seemed to bear no date. Lepadou, still stand¬ 
ing by the escritoire, perused it carefully, 
then read aloud: 

“Much excitement was caused last evening 
at the landing of the Bateaux Parisiens at 
St. Cloud by the reckless conduct of a young 
woman. She was unescorted, and attempted 
to board the boat just as it ivas leaving the 
pier for its final trip to Auteuil, ivhere it 
connects with the Paris line. Nobody seems 
to have noticed her until she appeared at 
the waterside on a run and tried to leap the 
chasm which already yawned between the 
planking and the moving steamer. 

“A guard tried to stop her, but she was 

[107] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


too quick and dashed through the gate. As 
a result she succeeded in precipitating her¬ 
self into the water. Several men immedi¬ 
ately leaped to her rescue, and she teas finally 
returned to the landing—after a frantic 
struggle, during tvhich she persisted in try¬ 
ing to make towards the receding boat. 

“And notv another peculiar feature of 
the incident developed itself. The woman, 
who was fashionably, even extravaga/ntly 
dressed, and of an extraordinary beauty — 
all the witnesses are agreed as to this, as well 
as to her extreme youth—stood for a fetv 
moments apparently dazed in the midst of a 
little crowd which had by this time collected 
on the pier. Then she suddenly made for a 
passing tram, rode for half a block and 
jumped off. From this point all efforts to 
trace her were unavailing. 

“Richly garbed pulchritude is no rare 
thing at St. Cloud, but it is usually less eager 
to catch the last boat home. If the thing is to 
become a craze the number of guards will 
have to be doubled.” 

“ ‘ Fashionably, even extravagantly 

[ 108 ] 


IN NINETTE’S BOOM 

dressed, and of an extraordinary beauty,’ ” 
mused Lepadou aloud. “What if it were 
Ninette Boncoeur, herself?” 

“I thought of that when I first read it,” 
said Forgeron. “But it calls her a young 
woman. Ninette couldn’t have been more 
than a little girl when she made that scrap¬ 
book.” 

‘ 1 She was only a little girl when she began 
it. But this item has no date, and nothing 
comes after it. I should say from the looks 
of the paper, too, that it was much more 
recent than the others. 

“Let us assume that the young woman was 
Ninette, for the sake of argument,” con¬ 
tinued Lepadou, looking at his companion 
over his shoulder. “What could she have 
been doing at St. Cloud at that time of 
night?” 

6 ‘ Why, maybe-’ ’ 

“Yes, if there had been a man with her 
it’s exactly the right distance from Paris to 
make the explanation only too easy.” 

“She may have been expectin’ one.” 

“Good. And she waits for him, we’ll say, 

[109] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

till it’s too late to catch the last boat back. 
A dreadful predicament for a respectable 
young lady. She tries to make the boat at 
any cost, and fails. Then she adopts the first 
means which offers to escape the crowd and 
possible recognition. 

“But she is drenched to the skin. It may 
have been winter time—three or four months 
ago, for instance. Probably she has no great 
amount of money with her. If she takes a 
cab—supposing that she can find one at that 
hour—it will cost her a pretty penny. Be¬ 
sides, she will freeze. To make the journey 
by tram in her drenched condition is even 
more impossible. So she would look for a 
room—a cheap one if necessary—some place 
where she could hide and find warmth and 
the means of drying her clothes. There she 
would spend the night, with money enough 
for the tram in the morning. ’ ’ 

“She might telephone,” put in the com - 
missaire’s inspector. 

“Yes, but would she? There are difficult 
explanations to make. More likely she puts 
them off—tries to give herself time to think 

[ 110 ] 



IN NINETTE’S ROOM 


of some plausible story which will spare her 
lover, if she has one, as well as herself. This 
delay makes matters worse, and to this day 
there must remain in her home the tradition 
of a dreadful row, tears and recriminations. 
If I were you I’d try to get the particu¬ 
lars. It couldn’t altogether have escaped 
the servants.” 

“Easily said,” retorted Forgeron, rising 
and stretching his legs. “ Charlotte, the 
maid, is about as talkative as an oyster. As 
for the cook—ten thousand devils! I tried 
to make up to her the first day I was here, 
and she nearly laid my head open with a 
skillet.” 

“You tried to make love to her, you 
mean?” 

“Well, you know how it is. She isn’t 
much older than I be, and they do say I’ve 
got the figure of a man. Many’s the time 
I’ve found out that honey’s better than vine¬ 
gar for catching flies. But Mrs. Cuit hasn’t 
got no sentiment.” 

Lepadou’s face wrinkled as he wheeled 

[in] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

about and critically inspected his ponderous 
companion. 

“In your place/’ he got out finally, “I’d 
never waste honey on a cook. Better try her 
with your ragout —and talk as one artist to 
another.” 

“It might work,” said Forgeron, doubt¬ 
fully. “But I must go now and have a talk 
with the concierge to see if everybody 
is m.” 

Left to himself, Lepadou returned to the 
clipping and soon discovered a date very 
faintly penciled on the margin. As he had 
guessed, it was of a day but a few months 
back. He felt certain now that he had inter¬ 
preted the St. Cloud incident correctly. But 
what did it signify? Who was this secret 
lover—if lover he were—whom she had gone 
to meet and failed to find at the rendezvous ? 
The question admitted of no answer from 
any information as yet to hand, and must be 
postponed till later. Meanwhile of more 
immediate interest was the sound of shuf¬ 
fling footsteps descending the stairs. 

The detective switched off the light, and 

[ 112 ] 


IN NINETTE’S BOOM 


had retreated on tiptoe to a corner just as 
the door opened to admit an old man. In the 
few ghostly rays from the street lamps— 
rays creeping through the chinks of the 
shutters to become the sport of the mirrored 
wall-panels—he looked to be eighty, with 
locks of straying hair, gray perhaps in the 
day time, but now of a silvery white. 

“I thought I heard voices,” he mumbled 
as he moved uncertainly about the room. 
“ There is always someone around. What 
are they looking for ? I know! I know! In 
a house like this there ought to be voices.” 

He took a step forward, then hesitated. 

“It must be in here. But no—I forgot. 
Poor little Ninette. It was all Le Gla§on’s 
doings from the start. I never approved of 
it. Le Glagon! The icicle. The servants’ 
tongues are loose to-day. I hadn’t heard 
that name in years. How it fits her. And 
yet I used to think-” 

He drew back, as if sensing the presence 
of another in the room. 

“Who’s there?” he called. 

[ 113 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

Then after a silence, and in a wavering 
key: 

“It couldn’t have been anything. I’ll 
have a lot of policemen running after me if 
I don’t look out. They’re probably in the 
house now trying to earn their salaries. 
Much good it will do them if they haven’t 
found out already. It’s too late.” 

He felt along the wall, as if for the light 
switch. 

“I’d like to see Ninette just once more, 
but I hate to look at this room. It was an 
awful system. Ruined—body and soul. But 
of course she isn’t here now. I’m growing 
childish. What good would it do, talking to 
the dead, anyway*?” 

He gave up looking for the switch, and 
stood irresolute. 

“Le Glagon! Cold, cold, cold. She was 
always like that. Everything seems to be 
getting cold. I can feel myself ice all over.” 

Without another word he turned, shut the 
door behind him, and could be heard re¬ 
ascending the stairs, his loose slippers click¬ 
ing at his heels. 


[ 114 ] 


IN NINETTE’S ROOM 

The detective shivered, as if the cold he 
had just heard spoken of were real. 

“Ugh! That was spooky,” he muttered, 
turning on the electrics. 

Too late, he regretted it, for other steps 
were approaching—rapid, nervous steps 
this time. He was just quick enough to slip 
into the garde-robe before the second in¬ 
truder entered. 

It was a woman, sparely built and middle- 
aged, with the dress and manner of a serv¬ 
ant. She did not mutter as the other had 
done, but walked straight to the escritoire, 
of which she tried one of the drawers. It 
was one which Lepadou had unlocked, and it 
was half out before a soft voice called from 
the adjoining chamber: 

1 ‘ Charlotte, is that you ?” 

“Yes, Jayne, dear. Why aren’t you 
asleep?” 

“I thought I heard somebody talking,” 
said Jayne, putting her head through the 
connecting door, which Charlotte had un¬ 
locked and opened. “Then I recognized 
your step.” 


[ 115 ] 



THE BONCOEUK AFFAIB 


“ Probably you heard some of the police¬ 
men/ ’ Charlotte replied. “I was just 
straightening up the room. They track in 
so much dirt that I hardly get a chance to 
rest.” 

“But why do the police keep coming here, 
and at night?” 

“It’s the law, dear. They have to do it 
until—it will be all over after we lay Ninette 
away.” 

“I’ll be glad. They wake me up. You 
don’t know how dreadful it is—hearing 
sounds all the time in that room—now.” 

Jayne put up her arms and kissed her old 
nurse affectionately. Charlotte relocked the 
door, and returned to the escritoire. 

“This drawer is left open at last,” she 
said in an audible whisper. “I felt sure I’d 
find it so finally, with all this coming and 
going. Poor Jayne! They’ll never stop 
coming here, even after the funeral. I 
know. ’ ’ 

She was rummaging hurriedly in the 
drawer now, and showed more and more 
anxiety as she tossed its contents about. 

[ 116 ] 


IN NINETTE’S ROOM 

“It’s gone!” 

Frantically she tugged at the other 
drawers, cast an agonized glance about the 
room until Lepadou began to fear that she 
would end by discovering his retreat, and 
slipped away as she had come, her hands 
clutched together in a gesture of acute dis¬ 
tress and disappointment. 

The detective returned to his seat before 
the escritoire. There was no doubt in his 
mind as to what the maid had come for. It 
was the scrap-book. And he had chanced to 
keep it in his hand. 

Reading the clipping once again, he tried 
to reconstruct the incident in even greater 
detail than he had already done. If the 
young woman at St. Cloud had really been 
Ninette—and there was little reason to ques¬ 
tion it now—and if she had gone there to 
meet someone, as Fergeron had suggested, 
why had she missed the last boat up towards 
Paris ? The lover having failed to arrive on 
the last boat down, there would be no hope 
of seeing him that night, for the up boat 
made the later trip, and she would be left 

[ 117 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

with plenty of time to save herself from the 
worst of her predicament. Or had she ex¬ 
pected him to come by automobile? Very 
unlikely. In that case it would have been 
more natural to wait for him and his 
machine in some resort nearer the city, so 
that they might ride out together. 

“There’s some mystery here,” he grum¬ 
bled, “but I can’t lay my hand on it.” 

For several minutes he sat there, his 
elbows on the marble slab of the piece of 
furniture before him, his head in his hands, 
pondering the question—then suddenly he 
felt a disagreeable crisping of the skin. It 
was that old sensation of being threatened 
by an unknown danger. He looked up, and 
in a mirror of the wall he saw that the door 
was ajar. 

After a time it opened slowly, but only 
Forgeron entered. 

“Boussai has come,” he announced in a 
whisper. 

“The commissaire — at this time of 
night?” 

“That’s nothing unusual. He does work 

[ 118 ] 



IN NINETTE’S ROOM 


on a case, I ’ll say that for him. And he likes 
to make sure that none of us are napping. 
Do you want him to find you here?” 

“ No; is there any way for me to get out ? ’ ’ 

The other nodded, went to the window and 
silently unlocked the blind. 

“You can climb down and be out of sight 
before he comes in here if you hurry.” 

Lepadou hurried, and was soon around 
the corner, where he changed his rapid 
stride to a loitering walk. He reached home 
unchallenged, pursued only by the thought: 

“It was just as if another shot was about 
to be fired. I didn’t see any Boussai, either. 
I’ve only Forgeron’s word for it that he 
arrived at all. And Forgeron was some¬ 
where behind me both times. This time, 

maybe, if it hadn’t been for the mirror-” 

% 

The detective threw off his coat impa¬ 
tiently and prepared for bed. This was too 
much. He was actually suspecting the one 
man whose blundering honesty had awak¬ 
ened a feeling of friendship. And yet— 
facts were facts. 


[119] 




CHAPTER VIII 

Discoveries 


J AYNE frequently found herself break¬ 
fasting with Pierre Noyeau in the 
family dining-room—for since her sis¬ 
ter’s death she had conceived a horror of 
taking her chocolate in bed. One morning 
he suddenly remarked: 

“Do you ever look in the glass?” 

The girl flushed. She knew what he 
meant. She was growing more beautiful 
every day. 

“I can’t help it,” she exclaimed. “It’s 
just excitement. There are always people 
in the house now who keep me awake. That 
makes me feverish. And you think it’s 
because I’m not sorrv about Ninette.” 

“Of course you’re sorry,” returned 
Pierre, reaching out and covering her hand 
gently with his own. “A flower is not to 

[ 120 ] 


DISCOVERIES 


blame for opening in the sunshine. I know 
what is happening. ” 

Know? How could he? It was a secret 
which she had breathed to no one. Was 
love, then, something which could not be 
hidden? But perhaps Pierre had better 
eyes than others. Maybe he was in love, 
himself. He might have had some secret 
attachment all along. Poor Ninette! It was 
cruel if nobody regretted her. 

“At least, I think I know,” Noyeau went 
on a shade less confidently. “The fact is, 
I’m judging you by myself. I hope it doesn’t 
make you angry?” 

It came to Jayne that she had been seeing 
a great deal of Pierre of late. The rest 
of the family seldom came to meals any 
more, and the two were thus thrown much 
into each other’s society. The realization 
brought a moment’s uneasiness. Was his 
solicitude becoming too marked ? 

She brushed the idea aside. No doubt he 
was longing for someone to whom he could 
pour out confidences, just as she was. If 
he had a sweetheart—an unguessed sweet- 

[ 121 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


heart—whom he was now free to marry, he 
must want to talk about her. And of course 
he was ashamed of his treachery to the dead. 
But Jayne could forgive him. She was 
ashamed of her own. 

“I don’t see why I should be angry,” she 
said after a little. “I believe I understand 
what you mean. Perhaps it is the same with 
me. Do you think it is very wicked of us?” 

Pierre’s face lighted up. 

“No, no. It’s not wicked. But it may be 
too soon to talk—in here at least. One 
can hardly breathe with the police always 
around. Why can’t we take a walk—over 
to Varene , for example?” 

At the mention of Varene Jayne blushed, 
for that lonely ruin, which so few in Paris 
ever visit, was the very place sacred to her 
meetings with the fairy prince. But she 
couldn’t confess this—not before Pierre had 
spoken openly of his secret attachment. And 
to object to the arena might look odd. Be¬ 
sides, she had no engagement there to-day. 

So it happened that soon after luncheon 
the two started down the rue Monge and 

[ 122 ] 


DISCOVERIES 

turned off into that network of unfamed 
streets which twist about the old amphi¬ 
theater without ever actually exposing it to 
view. Pierre knew the way without asking 
—a circumstance which shocked her a little. 
She had half-f ancied that she and the prince 
were alone in its secret. 

They came to a little hill, looking much 
like a neglected graveyard, entered through 
the rusty iron gate which guards the en¬ 
trance, mounted a flight of steps and emerged 
upon a small, grassy plateau. Beneath their 
feet lay an immense bowl, its farther side 
broken by a group of unpicturesque fac¬ 
tories, but its nearer half sweeping down in 
a great semicircle of steps to the level space 
once reserved for gladiators and wild beasts. 

The spell of Varene is so potent that for a 
time even these young Parisians were drawn 
from their own affairs. Pierre began to ex¬ 
plain the details of the mighty ruin, the half 
of which still lies buried under the debris of 
the Middle Ages. Jayne was wondering 
whether she dared to tell him her story be¬ 
fore he told his, when she discovered that 

[ 123 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


they were not alone. Far off to one side 
there was a man sitting with his back to 
them on one of the lowest tiers. He turned 
at the sound of ISToyeau’s voice, lifted to 
attract the girl’s wandering attention, and 
she saw that the incredible thing had hap¬ 
pened—though it was one which might 
easily have been foreseen. The fairy prince 
had come there to day-dream, and they had 
surprised him in the act. 

He rose and moved towards them at once, 
as if seized with the mad notion of making 
himself known. But his face was gloomy 
and threatening. Jayne understood in a 
flash of consternation what was passing in 
his mind. He did not know that the man 
posed so intimately by her side was as good 
as her brother. For the first time in her life 
she was face to face with jealousy. 

Pierre saw her distress, and made matters 
worse by putting his arm around her. 

‘ ‘ There’s nothing to be afraid of, ’ ’ he whis¬ 
pered. “It’s only some impudent masher. 
I’ll soon settle with him if he gives me the 
chance.” 


[124] 


DISCOVERIES 


Benson came on, apparently bent on 
speaking. But be passed with only a stare. 

“Now that is more than I can stand. He 
meant it for impertinence.” 

Noyeau growled the words out angrily, 
advanced, and continued with ironic polite¬ 
ness: 

“Pardon, m’sieu. But did you mistake us 
for somebody you knew? I thought, from 
the way you looked-” 

Benson, feeling a touch on his arm, 
wheeled around, glanced indifferently at 
Pierre and then beyond him to Jayne. 

This was her opportunity. She snatched 
a pencil from her sac, and, making certain 
that her lover observed her, wrote a few 
words hurriedly on the smooth stone slab of 
the seat. In the midst of her occupation she 
caught disconnected snatches of ^sentences 
exchanged in unfriendly tones. 

“Know you, m’sieu?” 

“Yes; somehow I didn’t take a fancy to 
your stare. I thought-” 

“Absent-mindedness on my part. Deso- 

[ 125 ] 





THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


lated to have annoyed mademoiselle. Noth¬ 
ing intended.” 

The fairy prince, having expressed him¬ 
self in these outwardly conciliatory terms, 
went on, leaving Noyeau to return to Jayne 
in triumph. 

“That’s the wav to handle those fellows,” 

4 / 7 

he exclaimed, resuming his place. “Show a 
bold front, and they hunt for cover every 
time. If I’d let him pass he’d have followed 
us home, found out where you live, and— 
there’s no telling what he wouldn’t have 
dared.” 

Jayne scarcely heard, and the rest of the 
afternoon passed with intolerable slowness. 
She had forgotten the idea of mutual con¬ 
fidences, her mind being on what she had 
written—now carefully covered by a fold of 
her skirt: 

“Don’t make a foolish mistake . Meet me 
here to-night.” 

Pierre complained that the encounter 
with “that infernal bonnet de fou” had up¬ 
set her beyond all reason. He showed her 
the tiny caves which once served as cages 

[ 126 ] 


DISCOVERIES 


for the lions; but this invocation of the dim 
past only added to her depression. So finally 
he took her home. 

A few hours later and night had converted 
the arena into such a pool of darkness that 
Jayne, having safely escaped from home, 
stumbled as she made for the spot where she 
expected to find her lover waiting. But so 
little timid was she now that she hardly 
started when an arm was thrust abruptly 
beneath her own. 

“I heard you coming,” whispered Ben¬ 
son, “and I couldn’t wait.” 

“It’s all right,” said Jayne. “I’d know 
you if I was blind.” 

Indeed, everything was so perfectly satis¬ 
factory that the two groped their way to a 
seat and let a quarter of an hour go by before 
they even seemed to remember the quarrel 
which had brought them there. 

“It was Pierre I was with this after¬ 
noon,” Jayne finally observed. “He in¬ 
sisted on coming here—and he’s only my 
brother.” 


[127] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Benson expressed contrition; then grew 
thoughtful. 

“I understand it now, Jayne. But, after 
all, he isn’t even a possible brother any 
more. Who knows? He may be planning 
to marry you.” 

“Foolish one! But from things he has 
said I fancy he has a sweetheart, and isn’t 
as sorry about Ninette as he ought to be.” 

“No one would be as sorry as he ought to 
be—if he thought he was going to get you 
in her place.” 

“But I’m not the sweetheart.” 

“How do you know? Though I suppose 
he must at one time have preferred your 
sister or he wouldn’t have engaged himself. ” 

“It might have been the usines,” admit¬ 
ted Jayne, with that tolerance of the idea of 
commercialism in marriage to which French 
women are brought up. “I suppose Ninette 
would have inherited papa’s business.” 

“I suppose so. And now you’ll inherit it. 
That’s probably the way he looks at it.” 

Jayne nestled her head in the hollow of 
her lover’s shoulder. 

[ 128 ] 



DISCOVERIES 


“Pm so glad, dear, that you loved me 
before you knew Ninette was going to die.” 

“ Before I—before she died, you mean. 
But it wouldn’t make any difference. No 
man could look at you and remember 
whether you had money or not.” 

“Then he must have felt that way about 
her. She was ever so much prettier than I. 
And that does away with his other sweet¬ 
heart.” 

“And brings us back to you,” asserted 
Benson. “I don’t like it—his being with 
you. And I’m sorry I ran into him this 
afternoon. He has seen me now. We’ll 
have to be more careful than ever.” 

“There’s another thing, too,” murmured 
the girl. 

“What?” 

41 Oh, Prince! Can’t you see ? I love you. 
To be with you here alone—we mustn’t!” 

She buried her head yet deeper in his coat, 
while his arms went around her in a sudden, 
passionate embrace. 

“We must run away and get married,” he 
said thickly, after a silence interrupted only 

[ 129 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

I 

by kisses. ‘‘ There’d be no end of delays now 
before we could do it in the regular way. 
Will you trust me and let me take you from 
Paris—at once?” 

“Not to-night?” 

“Why not?” 

She shook her head. His vehemence 
frightened her, for an elopement would be 
an open challenge to her mother. True, her 
mother would not know of it till after she 
was gone, but Jayne had no faith in mere 
distance to bring her to terms. Madame 
Boncoeur’s indomitable will, the rigid 
regime of seclusion which she had until now 
succeeded in enforcing, still had their influ¬ 
ence. Some crisis was needed to break that 
hold. Jayne merely shivered—in invisible 
bonds. 

Benson, misunderstanding her reluctance, 
accused her of coldness, of a lack of faith 
in his intentions. How could he say such 
things when she had to fight so to keep her 
will from crumbling before his own ? 

Home, after all, was a refuge, and she was 
glad when they reached the quai. Climbing 

[ 130 ] 


DISCOVERIES 

in at the window was such an old affair 
now that it hardly served to distract her 
thoughts. She was all but careless in her 
readjustment of the staple in the padlock, 
and turned on the light with an energy 
which was purely mechanical. Then she 
uttered a cry of consternation. Before her, 
stiffly upright in her invalid’s chair, sat her 
mother. 

“So, this is the way you employ your 
time?” 

Madame Boncoeur’s voice was cold—like 
a poignard. Jayne backed away and sank 
down, nearly helpless, upon the bed. ✓ 

“I — I haven’t been doing anything 
wrong,” she stammered. 

“Not wrong? Running about the streets 
like a grisette, and your sister hardly in her 
grave?” 

“No,” cried Jayne. “You’ve kept me 
here as if I was a prisoner, almost, and I 
couldn’t bear it. What has Ninette to do 
with it? Staying in wouldn’t do her any 
good. And I guess I cared for Ninette more 
than you ever did.” 

[ 131 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Her mother’s use of an evil but dimly 
comprehended word had roused unsuspected 
depths in the girl’s nature. She spoke at 
random. But the effect of her last remark 
was that of a thunderbolt. Madame Bon- 
coeur went as white as paper and fell back 
trembling in her chair. 

“Who could have told you that?” she 
gasped. “I gave her everything. You’re 
like your father. You want to kill me.” 

Jayne, who had jumped up, astonished at 
what she had done, remained speechless so 
long that her mother was able to recover 
some vestiges of her authority. 

“Tell me where you have been and what 
you have been doing,” she repeated. “See! 
You’ve brought on one of my bad spells. 
Will you answer, or not?” 

“I found that the shutters came open, and 
I went out—hoping that I might meet Pierre 
coming home.” 

The falsehood was out before she had time 
to consider its consequences. Madame Bon- 
coeur visibly relaxed. 

“It was frightfully indiscreet,” she re- 

[ 132 ] 


DISCOVERIES 

turned, “ though perhaps it has been too 
much like a prison here. But Pierre! Did 
you see him?” 

“No.” 

“But you like him very much, do you 
not?” 

The old woman actually smiled as she 
went on, relapsing into familiar discourse: 

“I might as well tell thee. We have de¬ 
cided that, as soon as the mourning is over, 
thou shalt be married. Don ’t interrupt. No 
use denying now that thy inclinations run 
the same way as ours—which is fortunate 
for us all. Pierre is very fond of thee, and 
will make an excellent husband. But of all 
things, don’t try to meet him clandestinely 
again. It might give him a bad opinion.” 

“But—he’s my brother. In a little while 
he’d have married Ninette, and-” 

“No need for self-reproaches, my dear 
child. If she had lived—yes. But there are 
business reasons why he should marry into 
the family—though this is not the proper 
time to discuss such things. 

“And now—come and kiss me, and open 

[ 133 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


the door. No, no! I can wheel myself, and 
Charlotte is waiting to help me to bed.” 

Jayne obeyed as unquestioningly as a 
child. In a moment her mother seemed to 
have regained her old-time ascendency. But 
the crisis necessary to break the bonds had 
nevertheless arrived, and the instant she was 
alone the daughter sat down and wrote to 
Benson: 

“I’ve had a scene with maman. She 
caught me coming in, and I had to pretend 
that I’d been out looking for Pierre . It’s as 
you said — they’re preparing to marry me to 
him, and I can never make them believe 
I’m not anxious for it now. Something I 
said about Ninette certainly frightened my 
mother. But I don’t know why, and I can’t 
fight her openly. She’s too strong. 

“I’ll be at the arena the first night I can 
get away. There may be some difficulty, as 
she has found out about the staple. But I’ll 
manage it somehow. You must be there, 
whenever it is, and take me away. If I 
stayed they’d end by making me do whatever 

[ 134 ] 


DISCOVERIES 


they want . I’m afraid now . Maman uses us 
all — papa, Pierre and everybody—as if we 
were wax in her hands. I almost believe she 
could kill anyone who stood out against her . 
And with Ninette hardly cold!” 

She signed and sealed the note, cautiously 
opened the shutter, and looked out. If there 
were only some way of sending her message 
at once, before the undermining processes 
should even begin. And at that moment, as 
if in answer to prayer, there appeared a soli¬ 
tary gamin marching along the other side of 
the street. She called softly. He stopped; 
then hurried towards her. 




[135] 


CHAPTER IX 
Chez le Juge 


TE SQUELETTE had been having a 
I j weary time for some days now. He 
had devoted himself at first to the 
rediscovery of the old woman with a shawl, 
for he still firmly believed that it was she 
who had stolen the suspected marrons. Fail¬ 
ing in his efforts, he made a half-hearted 
attempt to get in touch with Lepadou with 
a view to making a clean breast of every¬ 
thing. But a couple of calls at the detec¬ 
tive’s lodgings having failed to produce re¬ 
sults, he put off the evil day by adopting the 
policy of merely drifting around and hoping 
for luck. 

The sight of Jayne at her window and the 
sound of her voice startled him. He had 
been loitering too much in that vicinity, per¬ 
haps, and was going to be compelled to give 
an account of himself. As he approached 

[ 136 ] 


CHEZ LE JTTGE 


her, however, he was suddenly impressed by 
a pitying sense of her utter helplessness to 
do anybody any harm. 

“Boy, will you run an errand for me?” 
she asked. 

‘ ‘ Errand, lady ? W ’y not ? ’ ’ 

She was helpless, and foolishly trusting— 
qualities which Le Squelette ordinarily 
thoroughly despised. 

“ It’s only a letter, ’ ’ she went on. 6 i I want 
it delivered right away and an answer 
brought back.” 

“Lemme have it, then.” 

The white square dropped into his hand. 
He was certainly in luck, for here beyond a 
doubt was the name and address of the man 
with whom she had talked by the river. 

Jayne held out a bill. 

“I’ve only five francs. Will that be 
enough?” 

This was going too far—offering to pay 
him in advance. Le Squelette drew back. 

“Aw, keep yer money, Miss. I kin git all 
I want from de gent.” 

With that he walked off, a look of 

[ 137 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


almost ferocious self-importance on his face. 
Hadn’t he just refused five francs? 

‘ 6 Golly! Just like a dook.” 

Even so, there wasn’t much fun in betray¬ 
ing such confidence as Jayne’s. His sense 
of triumph threatened to ooze away. What 
if he were to continue the duke’s part, 
though, and deliver the letter honestly? 

For several blocks he walked along, con¬ 
sidering the pleasant novelty of such a line 
of action. But there had been too much 
playing at ducks and drakes with duty 
already. Besides, the flap of the envelope 
was still moist. He opened it without any 
difficulty whatever, and after considerable 
mental labor, aided by the light of a street- 
lamp, was master of its contents. An elope¬ 
ment. The man who had bought the mar- 
rons had brought her as far as this! 

“Now s’posin’ I had delivered it to him!” 
he exclaimed, appalled by a sudden compre¬ 
hension of the dangers to virtue. “Be girl 
cert’nly needs a gardeen.” 

No less certainly, fate appeared to have 
appointed him to supply the need. He had 

[ 138 ] 



CHEZ LE JUGE 


only to put the letter in his pocket and let 
it stay there. But why stop with this ? Why 
not take it to its destination, and get Ben¬ 
son’s answer? Lepadou, he knew, always 
gave villains plenty of rope and never inter¬ 
fered with their plots till the last possible 
moment. 

The flap was soon resealed, and though it 
looked rather the worse for wear, nobody 
would expect a letter to arrive spick and 
span from the hands of a street urchin. 

Benson, it proved, lived in a small hotel, 
where the boy boldly demanded audience 
through the clerk. There was no need of 
secrecy here. Nor was there any trouble. 
Benson, advised by the house telephone, 
ordered the messenger sent up, and Le Sque- 
lette was soon in his room—with leisure to 
repent of his rashness. The fellow looked 
formidable even in a dressing-gown when 
seen thus close at hand. 

But he paid no attention to anything but 
the letter, which he read almost at a glance. 
Then seizing a pencil, he leaned over a 
writing-table, and on a blank space below 

[ 139 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Jayne’s signature scrawled a single word: 

“Bon.” 

The hoy had barely presence of mind to 
read it over his shoulder as he stooped. 
“Bon” meant “all right.” The elopement 
was on. And Benson’s face when he turned 
showed such a degree of exultant triumph 
that it was evident that no small obstacle 
would now be sufficient to stop him. 

“Here’s twenty francs,” he said, having 
resealed the envelope securely with wax. 
“Just you make a beeline back to where you 
were sent from.” 

“Beeline nothin’—meh fine buck,” mut¬ 
tered Le Squelette to himself as he took the 
money. 

And yet, why not? More than likely 
Jayne would go to the rendezvous whether 
she received an answer or otherwise. So he 
stuck the letter in the split end of a stick and 
passed it to her without unnecessary delay. 
Her exclamation of pleasure was his reward. 

But immediately afterwards distressful 
feelings returned to take possession of him. 
The only thing he could think of sufficient 

[ 140 ] 


CHEZ LE JUGE 


now to rob the villain of bis prey was a riot 
of the juvenile proletariat, organized so as 
to be ready to break out at tbe arena when¬ 
ever the critical moment should arrive. 
With a tenth part of twenty francs he could 
depend upon producing such a demonstra¬ 
tion as would frighten away the devil him¬ 
self. It looked good. And yet—the idea 
that Jayne, herself, might be there to wit¬ 
ness this carnival of disorder was distinctly 
unpleasant. She would be frightened; she 
even might be hurt. 

‘ 4 Gee! I b ’lieve I Ve fallen for dat skirt, ’ ’ 
he mused as he wandered homewards. 

It was ridiculous, and quite unworthy of 
a man of talent. Nevertheless it was true, 
and strangely consoling in spite of the diffi¬ 
culties which it brought in its train. He 
would have to think of some other plan of 
saving her, or even make a determined effort 
to find the boss. 

At that very moment Lepadou was so near 
to his young lieutenant that a single dif¬ 
ferent turning might have brought them to¬ 
gether. The detective, in fact, was but on 

[ 141 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


the other bank of the Seine, chasing an ignis 
fatuus of his own. 

For days he had been following it—“on a 
mere hunch/ ’ he would have said. But he 
couldn’t shake off the impression of the con¬ 
stant nearness of the object of his search. 
The impossible Marie, the supposititious Le 
Caillou, the yet more unlikely Squid—call 
him what one liked, he never seemed far 
away. Time after time, in a face seen in a 
crowd, in a figure flitting along some lonely 
by-street, he thought he caught sight of a 
telltale trait or feature. And always it 
would disappear on closer scrutiny, or the 
suspect—on those rare occasions when it was 
possible to identify him—prove to be a 
demonstrably innocent citizen. 

On this occasion the quarry was appar¬ 
ently an old woman. But Lepadou cared 
little for appearances. He sensed some con¬ 
nection with the “case,” and worked with 
the skill and persistence of a dog. Neverthe¬ 
less, on reaching a crowded thoroughfare, 
the woman disappeared—melted somehow 
into the masculine. It was if a disguise 

[ 142 ] 


CHEZ LE JUGE 


had been removed, piece by piece, in those 
intervals when intervening pedestrians ob¬ 
structed the view. 

In the morning, deciding that he was be¬ 
coming the victim of a mere obsession, the 
detective resolved to busy himself for a 
while exclusively with the Boncoeur affair. 
He had not forgotten the shot which had 
been fired at him through the darkness with 
Eorgeron at his back, nor the fact that For- 
geron did not appear to enjoy the full con¬ 
fidence of his superior. His ignorance, of 
course, might be assumed. Or it might be 
that Boussai had kept from his inspector 
any number of things worth knowing— 
things which would appear only in the 
proces-verbal of the preliminary enquete. 
And that would be in the hands of the juge 
d’instruction assigned to the case. 

To get a look at it was no easy matter, for 
Paul Tardieu—the judge in question—was 
a comparative stranger, while the Chief of 
Police, who might have acted as friendly 
intermediary, was out of town. Lepadou 
was just leaving his lodgings and wondering 

[ 143 ] 


THE BOYCOEUR AFFAIR 


what steps it would be best to take, when 
who should appear but a boy wearing a con¬ 
spicuously new cap, a clean collar, and a 
necktie taken straight from the rainbow, 
the rest of his person remaining modestly 
neglected. A second glance was needed 
to identify the approaching vision as Le 
Squelette. 

“Some girl is responsible for this,” 
declared the detective, coming to a halt 
and pointing an accusing finger. “You’ve 
caught the oldest disease in the world—and 
just when I wanted to use you.” 

“Who, me? Stop yer kiddin’, boss. Dis 
is a sort of disguise. I thought it’d be better 
to dress up a bit if I come round yer neigh¬ 
borhood in de day time. Makes me less 
conspic’ous.” 

“Less conspicuous? You’re likely to 
cause a panic. But if you’re still in your 
senses, get busy and see what you can find 
out about Tardieu—what his habits are 
when off duty. Here’s some money. I’ll go 
back home and wait for your report.” 

“Judge Tardieu?” responded the gamin, 

[ 144 ] 


CHEZ LE JUGE 


pocketing the bill. “I know about him 
already—heard de concierge talkin’. He’s 
crazy—dat’s w’at.” 

“The concierge?” 

“De judge. He spends all his time at de 
picture shows. ’ ’ 

“A movie fiend.” 

“Naw—w’at’d there be so crazy ’bout dat ? 
He goes to the ex’bitions—de futilists.” 

“The futurists?” 

“Dat’s de idea—de guys w’at make pic¬ 
tures like a crazy-quilt. It must be de judge 
who keeps ’em from bein’ arrested for it.” 

Lepadou grinned in agreement and started 
away. The boy ran to stop him. 

“But I’ve got some things to tell yeh,” 
he protested. “Dere’s been de devil doin’ 
w’ile yeh been away.” 

And he related in detail the plans of Jayne 
and Benson, and the means he had been rely¬ 
ing on to bring them to naught. 

“I’ll wait for you every night at Les Deux 
Chiens,” said the detective when the narra¬ 
tive was concluded. “The minute you see 

[ 145 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Jayne leave home, you come and tell me. Is 
there anything else?” 

“Yeh might say so,” declared the boy, 
searching his pockets and finally bringing 
out the program which he had found stick¬ 
ing to the stolen marrons. 

“ Where’d you get this ?” demanded Lepa- 
dou, taking the paper. 

“W’y, de other night I found de shutter 
of Miss Jayne’s windeh was fixed so as to 
come open even w’en it was locked. So I 
dumb in. De paper was hid in a crack of 
de floor along de wall of Miss Ninette’s 
room.” 

He had fully intended to confess to the 
truth, but at the critical moment his imagin¬ 
ation once more got the better of him. The 
approving hand of the boss falling on his 
shoulder like an accolade made him wince 
with a sense of guilt. But he was reassured 
by a repetition of his instructions for 
shadowing Jayne. The elopement, at least, 
seemed thoroughly provided against. 

There was a well-advertised opening of an 
exhibition of modern art in a building near 

[ 146 ] 


CHEZ LE JUGE 


the Tuileries that morning, and Lepadou at 
once turned his steps in its direction. If 
Tardieu were a connoisseur, that was cer¬ 
tainly the place to look for him. En route 
the detective made a few alterations in his 
appearance, so that when he arrived a cer¬ 
tain look of seediness had given place to 
something more spick and span, calculated 
to make him pass as a connoisseur himself. 

The turn-out of the public was scanty— 
such a crowd as the critics would be sure 
to describe as “un pen de monde” in their 
articles the next morning. But Tardieu was 
there, seated in front of a particularly atro¬ 
cious painting—entitled, ‘ ‘ The Dauntless 
Nude Goes Out to Sea,” but revealing 
nothing apparently but a handful of pink 
autumn leaves afloat in a ditch of dirty green 
water. 

Lepadou sat down, consulted his cata¬ 
logue, and discovered that a disciple of Cez- 
zane was responsible for the marvel. 

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed aloud, as if 
unable to contain his admiration. 

The judge regarded him out of the corner 

[ 147 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

of his eye, then remarked in a drawling 
voice: 

“You don’t look like a fool.” 

“A fool, m’sieu?” 

“Of course, unless you come here for 
amusement, same as I do.” 

Then in another tone: 

“Ah, I see. It’s a disguise. Give me your 
real name, and try to act so that everybody 
in the room won’t know you’re a detective.” 

Somewhat crestfallen, Lepadou complied 
with the order, and explained that he had 
had no time to attend to his appearance. 

“Lepadou!” repeated the judge. “But 
I didn’t recognize you, so the disguise was 
all right after all. What is it you’re looking 
for?” 

“A man who can believe a strange story.” 

“Sounds refreshing. Nobody w T ith sense 
ever believes any other kind. Go ahead.” 

In a low tone the detective described his 
disturbing encounter with the publicity 
which follows every move of the official 
police, and of the ruse by which he had 
finally avoided it. 


[148] 


CHEZ LE JUGE 

“And now / 7 lie concluded, “the Chief is 
away, and I want to see Boussai’s proces - 
verbal in the Boncoeur affair.” 

“Want to save your cake and eat it, too, 
eh ? All right. I ’ve got it in my pocket. ’ 7 

“You believe all that I’ve been telling 
you?” 

“Why not? It’s too absurd to be a lie. 
And this Caillou, or Marie, that you men¬ 
tion—I’ve interested myself somewhat in 
his career, and feel sure that no man capa¬ 
ble of catching him would think of doing 
so without adopting some extraordinary 
means.” 

He took a bundle of papers from his 
pocket, and Lepadou, pouncing eagerly 
upon it, was soon master of the report. 
There was little news, but everything was 
minutely detailed and carefully en regie. 

“This Boussai seems to be a competent 
man, ’ ’ he offered. 

“A model,” replied Tardieu with a yawn. 
“Been in the service so long that I supposed 
he’d wormed all human traits out of him. 
And yet he surprised me the other day by 

[ 149 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


asking me to help him keep the one particu¬ 
larly painful feature of the case out of the 
newspapers in deference to the feelings of 
the family.’’ 

“That’s what I call decent.” 

“Oh, Boussai is a gentleman. And if he 
isn’t exactly clever, his industry and hon¬ 
esty fill me with a painful sense of my own 
shortcomings. He’d never go to an exhibi¬ 
tion with a dossier in his pocket.” 

“That reminds me, m’sieu le juge, I’ve 
something to show you.” 

Lepadou took out the program which he 
had just received from Le Squelette, and 
explained how it happened to fall into his 
hands. 

“L’Alouette!” breathed Tardieu, bending 
over the faded paper. “Mon Dieu! But it’s 
good to see that name again.” 

“You didn’t know her?” 

“Didn’t I ? While she was climbing from 
the boites of Montmartre to the Opera, I was 
right here in Paris, climbing to my first 
appointment. And you ask me if I knew 
L’Alouette, the Skylark! Why, like all 

[ 150 ] 


CHEZ LE JUGE 


other right-minded persons of my sex and 
age, I adored her. She could dance. She 
could act. She could sing. She was so 
beautiful that—but what is the use of trying 
to make anyone understand what she was?” 

“This program may be a valuable clew, 
then.” 

“Clew? Oh, yes. Of course. You can 
think of business when you’re looking at a 
piece of paper which brings Nina Amelle— 
that was her real name—back to life. You 
ought to have been a judge. But I—since 
you’re really not one of us, but a foreigner 
and born in America as I take it—I’m going 
to make a confession. When I was young 
I haunted the theaters just as I haunt the 
exhibitions now. But it was not to scoff. 
And even to-day—but it was so long ago 
there’s no use in recalling it. This program 
must have come from somebody much older 
than either of the Boncoeur girls.” 

“Do you know what became of her—the 
Skylark, I mean?” 

“No, Lepadou, I don’t. She left the stage 
in the midst of her glory. I don’t even know 

[ 151 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


what became of her child, though it was said 
that she had one. Let me see. There was 
talk of a count. Le Comte de Montfayat, 
that’s who it was, from the provinces some¬ 
where. I’ve heard say he married her, but 
I’m not certain. I’d taken to harness seri¬ 
ously by that time and was stuffing my mind 
with law. Now I’ve got to go. I’ve an 
instruction to conduct.” 

Lepadou hated to part with this strange 
judge, so full of levity, so thoroughly 
French. But it was necessary to thank him 
and to give him back his papers. 

As he did so, his eye caught sight of the 
greffier’s snapshot of Ninette’s chamber. 
But having already seen the inventory, he 
failed to give the picture more than cursory 
attention. Had he examined it thoroughly, 
then and there—that simple work of me¬ 
chanical art, so much more significant in its 
reality than any of the products of fantastic 
brushes on the walls about him—what 
changes might not have been made in the 
lives of men ? Impossible to say. For there 
is no speculation quite so futile as that of 

[ 152 ] 



CHEZ LE JUGE 


trying to determine what might have hap¬ 
pened if that which did not happen had 
achieved the impossible miracle of coming 
to pass. 


\ 


[153] 


CHAPTER X 
A Blotch of Ink 


D ECLINING- a seat in the judge’s 
I carriage, Lepadou started at a brisk 
pace up the Champs Elysees—that 
boulevard of boulevards, where Paris, which 
is becoming drab and modern in so many 
quarters, still displays the elegance and 
magnificence of other days. Beyond the Arc 
de Triomphe his walk reduced itself to a 
saunter, and once beneath the trees of the 
beautiful Bois he succumbed completely to 
idleness. The long, winding avenues were 
almost deserted. It was not yet their sea¬ 
son. But the sunlight, sufficiently warm 
for the comfort of an outdoor man, peopled 
the solitude with graceful shadows; and 
myriads of buds, just swelling into green, 
prophesied on every hand of the summer 
which was coming. The world of crime 
seemed to have been left far behind. Yet 

[ 154 ] 


A BLOTCH OP INK 


even here—and on one of these very benches 
—a man had been murdered not more than 
a week before. 

The detective shrugged his shoulders at 
the recollection, and gave himself up to 
revery. Two lines of investigation lay now 
before him. There was Jayne’s rendezvous 
with Benson, and there was the ancient thea¬ 
ter program. It would be necessary, of 
course, to try to trace L’Alouette’s connec¬ 
tion with the case. But it was his habit at 
times to let his brain lie fallow. Only medi¬ 
ocre talents keep themselves continually 
fagged out with work. And there was no 
hurry. Until nightfall, when he meant to 
take a hand in anything which might happen 
at Varene, sheer loafing promised to be the 
most profitable—and certainly the most 
agreeable—way of passing the time. 

He was the more annoyed when a flashily 
dressed woman, who had already passed him 
twice, came and seated herself resolutely on 
the bench beside him. 

“I followed you, m’sieu,” she began 
abruptly. 


[155] 






THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Hein?” 

“Yes, clear from the Tuileries where you 
said good-bye to m’sieu, le juge . Please 
don’t begin a refusal. I’m asking nothing 
of you—at least nothing of the sort you 
imagine.” 

“Perhaps madame will enlighten me, 
then?” 

Lepadou eyed his companion curiously, 
seeing in her an undoubted intrigante, yet 
one obviously moved by something outside 
of her usual role. 

“That’s right,” she said, with a nod of 
intelligence. “Artful I may be. But I’m 
not thinking of employing my arts on m’sieu 
Lepadou.” 

The detective frowned. 

‘ 4 How did you come by my name ? I don’t 
recollect the judge having used it after we 
left the exhibition building.” 

“Nevertheless, I learned it. And you’re 
working on the Boncoeur case. That, 
m’sieu,”—and here her voice trembled with 
sudden passion, “is something I’m person¬ 
ally interested in. Don’t let’s mince mat- 

[ 156 ] 


A BLOTCH OF INK 


ters. I know about policemen and detec¬ 
tives. Naturally you don’t exert yourselves 
without being paid for it. So tell me what 
I must give to have you get at the truth 
without fear or favor to anybody, and then 
come and report it to me instead of to the 
authorities?” 

“Under those circumstances,” Lepadou 
laughed in spite of himself, “I wouldn’t 
take the earth as a gift.” 

“Tut, tut! Let’s come to an understand¬ 
ing. I’ve got the money with me.” 

She opened a silver mesh-bag and took out 
a handful of hundred-franc notes. The 
detective saw that, however distasteful it 
might be, he would have to play the game. 

“Who is it you want protected?” he asked 
in an undecided tone. 

“That’s better,” said the woman, thrust¬ 
ing the notes into his hand. “But I can’t 
answer you.” 

“And I can’t work in the dark. Perhaps 
it isn’t protection that you want to give. 
You may be looking for revenge. That’s 
quite another matter.” 

[ 157 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Believe me, m’sieu, if that was it I’d be 
inclined to do the job myself.” 

“Le chantage, then?” 

“No, no!” 

Giving way to an outburst of emotion, she 
caught his arm. 

“No, no. Blackmail? Never. Can’t you 
think of me as a human being—a woman 
who still has something to live for and means 
to keep it?” 

Lepadou pocketed the money, and took 
down an address through which they were 
to communicate. Shortly before dark he 
was again at Les Deux Chiens, ready to re¬ 
sume his role of dipsomaniac—for once with 
no regret for the necessity of ordering an 
absinthe an sucre. There had been some¬ 
thing peculiarly distasteful in the flashily 
dressed woman’s silly belief in the univer¬ 
sality of corruption. He didn’t want to 
study her case just yet, and to get it out of 
his mind he began to re-examine L’Alou- 
ette’s program. 

After all, a time-stained paper, sole relic, 
probably, of a long-forgotten triumph, has a 

[ 158 ] 


A BLOTCH OF INK 


fascination, and the breath of the theater is 
clean compared with much of life. He was 
engaged in noting the other names in the 
cast when he became aware that somebody 
had slipped into the corner beside him. 
Slowly he turned and regarded the intruder 
through a pair of eyes which seemed sud¬ 
denly to have become filmed over with a look 
of semi-intoxication. If it wasn’t another 
woman! But an old woman this time—a 
perfect gypsy of a woman, with her head 
wrapped in a shawl. 

For an instant he thought there was some¬ 
thing familiar about the figure. It brought 
back his last chase of a fancied incarnation 
of The Squid. On closer inspection he 
became convinced that the two were not the 
same. But it was curious that there should 
have been even a momentary resemblance. 
Could anybody have been impersonating 
this old hag ? The idea was ridiculous. 

“Either Paris is haunted,” he said to him¬ 
self, “or else I am losing my mind.” 

He had returned to his contemplation of 

[ 159 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


the program when a voice began to mutter 
softly in his ear: 

“L’Alouette! Ah, la cherie! II est pos¬ 
sible, alors, qu’elle n’est pas oublieV’ 

“Forgotten?” repeated the detective, hid¬ 
ing his surprise at the words of the old 
woman, who had moved so as to look over his 
shoulder. “Why shouldn’t she be forgot¬ 
ten? In Paris the world moves. You don’t 
pretend to remember her?” 

“Why not, young man? Do you think I 
was always a hag ? I was figurante, let me 
tell you, at the Opera. And by the same 
token you might be buying something to 
warm my old bones. What is L’Alouette 
to you?” 

“I collect old programs, that’s all,” said 
Lepadou, beckoning to the gargon. “That 
is, I did before-” 

“Don’t I know, dearie? Before the good 
drink collected you. And now you hope to 
sell your last little curiosity for another 
glass or two as soon as your credit here is 
gone. I’ll take du vin rouge, if you please. 
Bless me! Don’t I remember when I came 

[ 160 ] 



A BLOTCH OP INK 


to the end of my rope ? It was in no such 
hole as this. But it amounted to the same 
thing, with nothing but m’sieu le comte’s 
last diamond to stand between me and 
starvation. Afterwards—but it wasn’t life, 
that. ’ ’ 

“ What count do you mean?” asked Lepa- 
dou, with carefully assumed indifference. 

“Montfayat was the great patron of the 
opera in those days. Why couldn’t it have 
been him?” 

There was something so unconscious in 
the effrontery of the bedlam that it held the 
detective’s attention even more than did 
the surprising purity of her French. At the 
mention of the Count de Montfavat he had 
felt his pulse quicken, for the same name 
had been let fall by the judge. Yet he felt 
that his companion was watching him, and 
he gave all his outward attention to his 
glass. 

‘ 6 Oh, the belle figurante that I was! Even 
Le Glagon sometimes applauded me when 
I came off stage—and it takes something 
to warm up a wardrobe-woman, and she 

[ 161 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

the star’s. For of course L’Alouette was the 
queen of us all. She had a voice. This is 
good wine. I thank you, young man. May 
you have better luck—and I hope you’ll pay 
for it in cash. I like to see the money going 
from hand to hand, if it’s only the last sou.” 

The crone sipped her wine with a certain 
elegance as she talked—an elegance tattered 
like her shawl, but of good original material 
—while Lepadou remained steeped in ap¬ 
parent oblivion. It was several seconds 
before he could recall where he had heard 
the name Le Glagon before; then he remem¬ 
bered that it had been muttered by Bon- 
coeur in the room of the murdered girl. Le 
Glagon, then, had been wardrobe-woman to 
L’Alouette—unless his present companion, 
whose object he more than suspected was 
merely to ascertain if his possession of the 
program had any significance, was invent¬ 
ing all her information. Some connection 
between the Boncoeur family and the Sky¬ 
lark was now beyond a doubt. 

“ What became of your old singing bird ?” 
he brought out, as if suddenly recalling him- 

[ 162 ] 




A BLOTCH OF INK 


self to the subject. “Did she hit the slide, 
like you and me?” 

‘ ‘ She ? The Count married her. ’ ’ 

“It can’t be.” 

“Oh, didn’t he?” The woman’s voice, 
which had been remarkably mellow for one 
of her age, rose harshly in a gust of anger. 

“Poor Alouette! Even her reputation is 
gone now. And that wretched old widower 
treated her badly, too. He couldn’t get 
along even with his own son by his first. 
But my dear gave up everything for him” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing. I have heard stories—but 
they are half-forgotten, and lies most likely, 
at that. I am old. I’ve heard, too, that 
L’Alouette is dead. Let us hope so.” 

The speaker, her passion spent, gave her¬ 
self up to the luxury of the drink, and let 
drop nothing further save now and then a 
few maudlin syllables. She was soon asleep, 
and when finally she roused herself and hob¬ 
bled off, Lepadou let her go without follow¬ 
ing her. He could verify the history of 
the Skylark at his leisure. As for the old 

[ 163 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


woman, she was of no apparent consequence, 
and probably could be found again if 
wanted. Just at present he wished to keep 
himself free to deal with whatever should be 
reported of the movements of Jayne and 
Benson. 

Le Squelette, with the same pair in mind, 
had spent the day in luxurious idleness. 
Being clothed beyond the recognition—or at 
least the toleration—of his usual compan¬ 
ions, and overstocked with funds, he lunched 
and dined in sybaritic splendor, trying to 
imagine himself a youth of the extremely 
gilded sort. At first he played with the idea 
that he was in love, the victim of a hopeless 
and lugubrious passion, but his mind soon 
took him through all the vicissitudes of life, 
and he ended by feeling old, blase, worn out 
by too much experience. Even staid Pari¬ 
sians stared at the strutting apparition as it 
passed along the fashionable promenades of 
their ever-astonishing city. 

With the approach of night, he resumed 
his rags and his sense of reality, and imme¬ 
diately found himself attracting less atten- 

[ 164 ] 


A BLOTCH OF INK 


tion. In the St. Dennis quarter, where he 
wandered to pass the remaining time, rags 
and dirt were a sort of protective covering. 

But even rags might have put on airs in 
one resort which he entered. It was a 
wretched guingette, or tea-garden, not so 
dirty as evil—a place where villainy was in 
the very reek of the sticky scum of its tables, 
and in the blight of the tubbed orange trees 
waiting for the season when they were to 
make a sylvan retreat of its backyard. 

There were few customers at this hour, 
but one group at once riveted the lad’s atten¬ 
tion. They were seated in a sort of booth, 
half-hidden by imitation foliage—five men, 
four of them well-known characters, whom 
no student of slum life could have failed to 
recognize. 

“La Haquenee, the Ambler; Le Tapageur, 
the Bollicker; Le Boquetin, the Ibex; Le 
Boucher, the Butcher,” he repeated softly. 
“Dere must be some deviltry in de wind 
wit’ them four settin’ wit’ heads together. 
Apaches, dat’s w’at. But I wonder who de 
guy is dey’s all listenin’ to? He don’t look 

[ 165 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


like de rest. Looks more like—see his 
crooked legs an’ arms!—looks more like a 
devil-fish. ’ ’ 

A waiter came up. 

“ Gimme a cup of coffee/ * said Le Sque- 
lette, in the most impertinent voice at his 
command. 

“Get along out of here and he quick about 
it/’ growled the waiter. 

The hoy found himself taken by the ear 
and rapidly conducted to the sidewalk. 

There was no use in standing up for one’s 
rights. The waiter was a Hercules. Also it 
was time to be moving on towards the quai. 
So Le Squelette saved the remains of his 
dignity by firing a volley of verbal abuse— 
from a safe distance—and hurried away. 

It was soon dark, a fog having come up 
as the sun went down, covering the city with 
a gloomy mantle, like the presentiment of 
coming evil. But the boy welcomed it. With 
a fog, it was easy to flit from one hiding- 
place to another, to be found always walking 
quietly forward when a foot passenger came 
near, to run no risk of observation, yet 

[ 166 ] 






A BLOTCH OF INK 


always to keep the Boncoeur place in sight. 

After a long wait, Jayne opened a blind 
(her supposed leaning towards Noyeau had 
saved her from interference), descended 
lightly to the sidewalk, and started in the 
direction of the rue Monge. Le Squelette 
darted towards Les Deux Chiens, his head 
down, his arms working like pistons, deter¬ 
mined not to lose an instant in advising his 
patron that the night’s drama had begun. 

Thus he did not see an old vendeuse, who 
attempted to cross the street in front of him, 
until he had collided with her cart and sent 
a good half of her stock in trade rolling on 
the muddy pavement. The shock of the col¬ 
lision upset his faculties for an instant, but 
he would have gone on had not the old 
woman, who proved to be as strong as she 
was bent, seized him resolutely by the ear. 

“Mechant’gosse!” she screeched. “ You’ve 
ruined me. But at least you’ll stop to pick 
up my fruit.” 

‘‘Ain’t got time,” he shot out—for he 
feared a quarrel and the possible interfer- 

[ 167 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


ence of some patrol. “Here, I’ll pay yeh. 
How much d’yeh-” 

He stopped short. The apple woman was 
none other than the gypsy. 

“Maybe you’d like it better if they was 
marrons, ’ ’ she chuckled, but without loosen¬ 
ing her hold. 

“So it was you that took ’em,” he gasped, 
surprised at the frank admission of a fact 
which he had hoped to establish only by 
force and cunning. “I guess you an’ me’ll 
have to have a little talk—after a break like 
dat.” 

“Talk all you want to—only begin by 
pickin’ up my fruit.” 

“But I got an errand. Lemrne go, an’ I’ll 
come right back an’ pay yeh an’ pick up yer 
rotten apples besides.” 

“Pay me first.” 

“Den yeh wouldn’t wait for me to git 
back,” pronounced Le Squelette judicially. 
He was in a quandary. It seemed folly to 
drop the trail of the marrons, now that he 
had had the luck to pick it up again. At the 
same time the boss must be told about Jayne. 

[ 168 ] 



A BLOTCH OF INK 


An urchin of his own age, whom he had 
already encountered more than once, saun¬ 
tered up out of the fog at this juncture and 
began to laugh. Le Squelette hesitated for 
just one instant, for orders were orders and 
he had been told to report to Lepadou in 
person. But it was too good a chance to be 
lost. 

‘ 4 Here, Frangois, ’ ’ he cried. ‘ ‘ Run to Les 
Deux Chiens for me, will yeh?” 

“What for?” asked the other, coming 
nearer. 

“ ’Cause I can’t go myself till dis old 
witch gits her apples back in her cart. 
Teh’ll find a seedy-lookin’ party fast asleep 
in one corner. You say to ’em ,'Le Squelette 
says she’s started /—just them words. He ’ll 
give yeh five francs, sans blague ” 

“An’ if he don’t?” 

“If he don’t, I’ll give yeh leave teh take 
it out of my hide.” 

This seemed to decide the messenger, for 
he disappeared at once, and in the right 
direction. Le Squelette followed him as far 
as he could with his eyes—which unfortu- 

[169] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 
nately was not far. Then he returned to the 

gypsy. 

“Now, den, hand over de marrons.” 

“You don’t suppose I’ve got ’em here? 
Why, I’ve eaten them.” 

The boy doubled up with laughter. 

“If you’d a et ’em—oh, ho-ho!” 

‘ ‘ What’s the matter ? Weren’t they made 
to eat?” 

“Dey’s poisoned, d’at’s w’at. I was takin’ 
l ’em to my boss to kill rats with.” 

“Rats? Those candies cost ten francs a 
box.” 

“He’s rich. He don’t care—an’ dey is 
very partic’lar rats up at our house.” 

During this conversation the two had been 
retrieving the fruit, and now stood looking 
at each other for a moment in silence. 

“You’re talking nonsense,” said the old 
woman. “I took those chestnuts just to 
show you there were others in Paris even 
smarter than you. And I meant to sell ’em.” 

“Better sell ’em to me, den—I give yeh 
warnin’.” 

“But if there’s something wrong about 

[ 170 ] 


A BLOTCH OF INK 


the business,’’ she went on, “I don’t want 
anything to do with it, or your money either. 
Come with me and I ’ll let you have the box. ” 

“W’ere d’ yeh live?” 

“It ain’t far, and you can help me push 
my cart.” 

Le Squelette felt that his position was 
undignified. Also the harridan’s “not far” 
proved to be a weary distance, and in a 
direction which led to a dismal, ill-smelling 
section where at that hour not a soul seemed 
to be stirring. But she halted finally before 
a block of ancient warehouses, unlocked a 
door, and conducted him across a courtyard 
to a building half in ruins, in the cellar of 
which she lighted a stub of candle. 

“It isn’t a palace, dearie,” she cackled. 
“But what you came for is right over there 
in the corner behind them empty barrels.” 

As he turned to look in the direction indi¬ 
cated, the candle was blown out. 

“Here! W’at ’r’ yeh doin’?” he cried, 
making a rush for the steps by which they 
had descended. 

But his sense of direction was confused, 

[ 171 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


and, tripping over a loose brick in the floor, 
be stumbled and fell. By the time be bad 
picked bimself up, a faint streak of illumi¬ 
nation was coming in through what be dis¬ 
covered was a small window, ten or twelve 
feet from the ground. He bad to stand back 
as far as the cramped space within the four 
walls would allow in order to get even a 
glimpse of what was beyond, and then all he 
saw was the gypsy, her relighted candle 
in her band, her face pressed against the 
window-bars. 

“Let me out, you old devil!” be screamed, 
beside bimself with rage. “ D ’ yeb t ’ink yeb 
can scare me?” 

“Scare you? Why, you wouldn’t be 
frightened of a poor old body like me, would 
you ? The candle blew out in the draft and 
I bad to go and bunt for a match.” 

“Well, den, come back so’s I can find de 
marrons. ’ ’ 

“They’re not there, boy.” 

“Yeb said dey was. W’at’s de matter wid 
yeb? W’at ’re yeb goin’ to do?” 

“I’m going to keep you here, keep you 

[ 172 ] 


A BLOTCH OF INK 


till you starve, keep you till you break your 
heart calling out and nobody answering.” 

“She’s crazy!” gasped the boy with a 
shudder. “Come, old woman. Ill give yeh 
all de money I got, and I know a way to get 
yeh plenty more.” 

“Keep your money, little monkey-face 
that sets other boys to chasm’ women 
through the streets. You’ll need it for com¬ 
pany, for we’re all alone with these nice, 
thick walls where nobody ever comes. I 
want to hear you moan and cry. But if you 

i 

get hungry, let me know. I’ll be listening, 
and Ill bring you something to eat—some¬ 
thing good. ’ ’ 

“I don’t want to eat.” 

“Not hungry, eh? But you will be. And 
then Ill give you the marrons.” 

“Them!” In spite of himself, the boy’s 
voice was beginning to shake. “They’s 
poisoned, I tell yeh. ’ ’ 

“Well, well, well. Perhaps they are. 
That’s what we’re going to find out. You’ll 
swallow every one of them or stay here till 

[ 173 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


you starve—starve without a drop of water 
or a ray of light.” 

And cackling over her horrible threat, the 
gypsy let something heavy fall over the win¬ 
dow. Le Squelette rushed up the stairs and 
hurled himself against the door, which he 
already knew to he locked. It was useless 
to bruise his fists against the solid and un¬ 
responsive wood, but bruise them he did, 
with all the blind energy of an animal caught 
in a cage. 

Meanwhile, Lepadou waited according to 
agreement in the cafe. No message arrived 
—for the boy, Francois, was not to be heard 
of again for many a day—and the hours 
passed in uneventful monotony. Eventu¬ 
ally he had to move, but he took the precau¬ 
tion of walking past the Boncoeur house and 
on to the arena. Everything was quiet, and 
a growing light in the east sufficiently ac¬ 
counted for the absence of Le Squelette from 
any post of observation. Jayne could not be 
expected to elope after a certain hour. That 
the boy had gone home without reporting 
was nothing remarkable. Probably he be- 

[ 174 ] 


A BLOTCH OF INK 


lieved himself to have long outwatched his 
patron. Anyway it looked as if Jayne were 
safe for another eighteen hours or so. 

Late as it was when he went to bed, the 
detective rose early, for he meant to spend 
a long day in the Hall of Public Records. 
The French file everything away. One may 
still read the actual words uttered by Abe¬ 
lard, Gille de Rais or Jeanne d Arc. These 
vast archives are scattered all over the coun¬ 
try. But as there is no discrimination used, 
and as no outsider has ever mastered the 
system of classification, the innumerable 
dossiers might as well be in ashes so far as 
the lay investigator is concerned. 

Lepadou found himself in a dimly lighted 
interior, built like a theater, with galleries 
running clear to the roof. He liked research, 
knowing what stirring human dramas often 
lie in those volumes, those bundles of almost 
undecipherable manuscript apparently so 
meaningless and dull. He anticipated no 
difficulty—at least not in running down the 
history of Montfayat. A count, the juge 

[ 175 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


d’instruction had called him. It ought to be 
easy to trace a count. 

But the attendant who came forward to 
accept a liberal tip in lieu of other formali¬ 
ties quickly informed him of his error. 

“We have only vital statistics here,” he 
said. “If your party was horn, or married 
or deceased in Paris, we ’ll have him. Other¬ 
wise you’d better look in the genealogies of 
the old nobility, and they’re in another 
building—closed just at present for re¬ 
pairs.” 

Apparently the count had overlooked 
Paris at the statistical moments of his life, 
for no index bore his name. 

Amelle, said to be the true patronymic of 
L’Alouette, yielded this entry: 

“Amelle, Nina; horn Feh. 12, 1902, to 
Amelle, Nina.” 

An entry eloquent with omissions. There 
had been a child, then. 

He turned to the B’s and found: 

“Boncoeur, Gustave Georges; horn Oct. 
7, 1864, to Gustave and Marie Boncoeur; 

[ 176 ] 



A BLOTCH OF INK 

married Oct. 9, 1900 , to Jayne Roux, spin¬ 
ster.” 

This was the chemical manufacturer be¬ 
yond a doubt, and perfectly clear and regu¬ 
lar. Not so the following birth-record: 

“Boncoeur, Jayne, born, to Gustave 
Georges Boncoeur, perfumer’s apprentice, 
and to Jayne Roux Boncoeur, his wife, 
March 22,1901.” 

In the first place, it made Boncoeur a per¬ 
fumer’s apprentice as late as his thirty- 
seventh year, a full year after his marriage. 
What then could account for his subsequent 
and amazing rise in life ? Not native ability, 
evidently. And what did the Boncoeur 
record mean by omitting all mention of 
another daughter ? There was mention of a 
son, born two years later, and of his sub¬ 
sequent decease before reaching majority. 
But what about Ninette, the eldest child of 
all ? Jayne Roux’s own dossier said nothing 
about a natural child. 

As Lepadou pored over the atrociously 
penned entries, he caught sight of an inky 

[ 177 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


smudge on the margin of one of the docu¬ 
ments. It was comparatively fresh. 

“Six months old, or a year at most,” he 
mused. “So I’m not the first on the trail. 
That blot was never made by the recording 
clerk.” 

And then to the attendant, who stood hov¬ 
ering near in hopes of an opportunity to 
earn another gratuity: 

“I suppose the police have had this dossier 
out a good many times since the murder, 
haven’t they?” 

“The Boncoeur dossierV’ repeated the 
clerk, stooping to read. “Mais non, m’sieu. 
The police have their own secret records. 
They very seldom come to me.” 

Lepadou, who knew this very well, fol¬ 
lowed with the question to which he really 
wanted an answer: 

“Then, of course, you don’t remember 
who asked for these papers last?” 

“It just happens that I do. It was a 
young man, a very brisk young man, and a 
little arrogant. He used a fountain pen— 
quite against the regulations, which require 

[ 178 ] 


A BLOTCH OP INK 


all copying to be done in pencil. You see 
the result, m’sieu—an ink-stain on one of the 
pages. We bad words about it. That’s how 
I happen to recall him.” 

“.Very good.” 

Lepadou studied the mark through a; 
pocket-lens. Here might be a valuable clue 
—after one had had time to puzzle out what 
it all meant. 

But it was now the noon closing-hour, and 
the detective, having rewarded the attendant 
once more, took himself and his perplexities 
to a neighboring restaurant for lunch. 


[179] 


CHAPTER XI 

Disappearances From the Scene 

T O Lepadou’s mind, the case was now 
like one of those vague pictures 
made out of weather-stains upon 
well-seasoned timber. It was easy, by omit¬ 
ting a detail here and supplying another 
there, to see it as a complete and well- 
rounded composition. But as fanciful peo¬ 
ple in gazing at a weather-stain are able to 
modify its suggested outlines, turning what 
at one moment seems to be a human face into 
a landscape, the landscape into a group of 
figures and the group into a ship or a castle, 
so the investigator could take the facts 
which had thus far come to light and twist 
them into several different theories. But no 
theory accounted for all the facts, and the 
only effect of his discoveries, arrange them 
as he would, was to make the death of 

[ 180 ] 



DISAPPEARANCES FROM SCENE 

Ninette Boncoeur more mysterious than 
ever. 

For instance, he had no sooner abandoned 
the chocolate cup as an important link in the 
chain of evidence, and come to the conclusion 
that the Boncoeur affair stood by itself with 
no connection whatever with the series of 
murders he had started out to investigate, 
than he had been shot at under circum¬ 
stances so puzzling that it seemed almost 
necessary to invoke the spectre of Marie in 
order to explain them at all. 

Then there was Forgeron, whom his mind 
persisted in regarding with friendly feel¬ 
ings, but against whom mere logic continued 
to warn him—Forgeron, with his position of 
trust and evident lack of the full confidence 
of his immediate superior. How link For¬ 
geron—supposing that he was a link—with 
the woman of tawdry silks and laces encoun¬ 
tered in the Bois? Or the woman in the 
Bois with the gypsy in Les Deux Chiens ? 

The women were a pretty puzzle in them¬ 
selves. Did they have any connection with 
any persons in the drama, or were they 

[ 181 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


merely spies? If the latter, whose spies? 
Echo answered. 

Nor could it be said that the information 
just wrested from the records threw any 
light upon these matters. He might in time 
identify the author of the ink mark, but 
what then ? Whether he proved to have been 
an open lover of Ninette, a secret follower, 
or merely a curious outsider running down 
some rumors he had heard, there was noth¬ 
ing in the combined evidence of all the docu¬ 
ments taken together to furnish the slightest 
motive for his wishing the girl out of the 
way. 

Whether Ninette was the daughter of 
L’Alouette, or of a wardrobe - woman, 
whether her father was the Count de Mont- 
fayat, or the chemical manufacturer, or 
somebody else, she was in any case the heir¬ 
ess to a considerable fortune. The records, 
if they altered her status at all, tended de¬ 
cidedly to enhance the value of her apparent 
prospects. The count was dead, and to have 
inherited from his widow would have been 

[ 182 ] 




DISAPPEARANCES FROM SCENE 


even better than to have inherited from 
Boncoeur. 

“Pd better make sure, though, that the 
old song-bird is the count’s widow,” mused 
Lepadou as he finished his luncheon. 

And finding himself passing the Odeon, 
and therefore near the Bibliotheque Na- 
tionale, he decided not to wait for the open¬ 
ing of the archives of the nobility—which 
might be a matter of weeks—but see what 
could be found in the files of the newspapers. 

Being in possession of a ticket of entrance, 
he was soon seated before a rickety desk in a 
low stone building, more like a monastery 
than a library, where repose nearly all the 
literary treasures of the world and several 
hundred tons of its most unmitigated rub¬ 
bish. 

The file of “Le Figaro” for the year 1902 

—the vear in which L’Alouette’s child was 
•/ 

born—made no reference whatever to the 
distinguished artiste . But in the issue of 
April 2,1903, he came upon an item headed, 
“Mariage d’Une Chanteuse.” 

“L’Alouette of the Opera becomes Com - 

[183] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


tesse de Montfay at/* lie continued to read, 
translating the salient sentences half aloud; 
“Ceremony at Versailles—The Barling of 
opera-going Paris carries out her threat to 
make retirement from stage permanent — 
Bridegroom has estates near Avignon, where 
couple will reside.” 

The article went on in a laudatory but 
familiar vein, referring to the bride’s 
beauty, talent and capricious spirit as to 
things well known to all. Her “threat to 
make retirement from the stage permanent” 
seemed to indicate that she had already 
abandoned her public career some time be¬ 
fore. But there was no hint of any scandal— 
and this was already 1902. Evidently there 
were gaps in the known life of the star, or 
else a French newspaper, moved by the sen¬ 
timent of the occasion, had for once seen fit 
to be discreet. 

As to the bridegroom, the account was 
more specific. He was rich, a well-known 
patron of the greenroom, a widower who had 
quarreled with his son. Through a thinly 
veiled irony of the flattering phrases, one 

[184] 


DISAPPEARANCES FROM SCENE 

seemed to glimpse a man half declasse, a 
successful speculator, a ne’er-do-well of 
abundant means and imperious passions. 

This was interesting, but it certainly was 
not the touch needed to give definite shape 
to the case in hand. 

“I’d rather know something about that 
St. Cloud scrape,” reflected Lepadou. “If 
Ninette really went there to meet a lover, 
then that would at least account for-” 

His thought was interrupted by a boy’s 
voice shouting through the doorway: 

“Quick, boss; Dey won’t let me in—an’ 
somethin’ awful has happened.’* 

“What is it?” demanded the detective, 
striding quickly to where Le Squelette was 
struggling in the hands of an attendant. 

“Everyt’ing, boss. Miss Jayne is miss- 
in’—an’ so is dat guy, Benson.” 

Le Squelette had been playing to hard 
luck. In the first place, though spared the 
knowledge that Francois had failed him, he 
was forced to pass the entire night in the 
gypsy’s cellar. It was a situation which for 
a while robbed him of his self-possession. 

[ 185 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

But he ended by lying down on the floor of 
his dungeon and crying himself to sleep. 

When he woke it was still dark; yet he 
felt that it must be day outside, and for a 
while renewed his efforts to attract atten¬ 
tion. But either the walls were too thick or 
the neighborhood deserted. Nobody came. 

The morning wore away, and he marked 
its hours by no other clock than his stomach. 
Hunger, however, did not bring back the 
terrors of the night before. It no longer 
seemed at all likely that the gypsy intended 
either to starve or to poison him. She was 
only trying to frighten him—whether out of 
revenge or to get some information, he did 
not know. In either case she would have to 
come and see him, and in delaying so long 
she had given him time to mature a plan. 

He became very quiet, listening with all 
his ears, and when the old woman finally 
removed the obstruction from the window 
and looked in, he was on his face in a 
farther corner, sobbing like one whose heart 
is broken and strength almost gone. He 

[ 186 ] 


DISAPPEARANCES FROM SCENE 


answered nothing to her call, and she was 
forced to enter. 

“Listen, boy,” she said, getting down on 
her hands and knees beside him. “I don’t 
want to hurt you unless I have to. But 
you’re mixing yourself up in something you 
don’t understand.” 

“Oh—oo—yes, mum!” 

Le Squelette peeked out of the corner of 
his eye. His ears had not deceived him. 
She had neglected to refasten the door. 

“Then tell me what you’ve found out, and 
who’s been employing you?” 

There was no answer. Le Squelette, sud¬ 
denly fired with energy, had leaped over the 
crouching figure and was off like a shot. 

He was several blocks away before he 
remembered the marrons, and he had the 
temerity to go back and look for them. But 
the outer door of the warehouse was now 
locked, nor could he discover any other way 
of entrance. He gave up an attempt to force 
the lock, and turned his steps towards the 
quai Bethune, hoping to pick up some re¬ 
assuring news of Jayne. Perhaps the boss 

[ 187 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


had caught up with her and induced her to 
return home. Perhaps there had been a 
fight with Benson. Anyway, something must 
have happened. 

There was a crowd about the house, but 
he decided to carry out his original idea— 
which was to apply to the concierge in the 
quality of a boy whose one hope in life was 
to secure a bit of temporary employment. 
He was met at the door of the lodge by an 
impatient oath: 

“Va t’en, parbleu! Ain’t there trouble 
enough for one day without street boys 
cornin’ to pester me?” 

“I know,” said Le Squelette, deciding to 
put his worst fears into one bold guess and 
see if it would be denied. “The young 
ma’m’selle has run away. But 11’ought yeh 
might want me to take word to somebody, or 
somethin’, an’ help find her.” 

“How’d you know she’d run away?” cried 
the concierge. “Here! You come in now 
and tell me who told you.” 

“I heered a couple of flicts (fly cops) 
talkin’, dat was all,” said the boy, evading 

[ 188 ] 


DISAPPEARANCES PROM SCENE 

the other’s clutch by an inch. “No harm 
done, mon vieux. Ta-ta.” 

Seizing upon a last hope, he ran to Ben¬ 
son’s address. There was a strange clerk on 
duty. 

“I’ve got a letter for de gent in sixty- 
seven,” Le Squelette explained. “Is he in?” 

“Leave it, and I’ll see that it gets to him.” 

“I can’t leave it. I was told to give it to 
’m direct.” 

“That’s the boy who was here with a mes¬ 
sage for Mr. Benson the night before last,” 
put in the night clerk, emerging sleepily 
from the depths of the office. ‘ ‘ The gentle¬ 
man went out last evening, son, and he hasn’t 
come back yet—if that’s any good to you.” 

“My eye! Ain’t he de gay bird? But I 
can’t leave nothin’. Me orders was strict.” 

Once more he had to bound off with a mien 
of unconcern. It was evident now that some¬ 
thing had gone wrong with that message to 
Les Deux Chiens, and there was nothing 
to be done but find the boss and leave the 
whole matter in his hands. 

Lepadou was not at his lodgings, but pass- 

[ 189 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


ing near the Odeon the boy—chance playing 
into his hands at last—happened to see him 
entering the Bibliotheque Nationale. A less 
keen eye might not have been so certain, for 
as usual the detective was leaving his iden¬ 
tity somewhat in doubt. Le Squelette, how¬ 
ever, followed him with the certainty of a 
hound, and halted only at the entrance of the 
building, where he discovered a barrier in 
the form of a stout individual whose move¬ 
ments were strictly controlled by official red 
tape. It did no good to tell him that there 
was an absolute necessity for conversation 
with the party who had just gone in. That 
was not the attendant’s business. He only 
knew that here was a ragged urchin without 
a ticket—a pretty sort to be demanding 
admittance under any circumstances. 

There was a parley, conducted chiefly by 
the boy, as the official preferred to assume 
that one refusal ended the matter. Finally 
Le Squelette appeared to fall in with this 
opinion. But it was a feint. A second later, 
and he had dodged between the official’s legs, 
and—struggling now with another man in 

[ 190 ] 


DISAPPEARANCES FROM SCENE 

uniform—was shouting to his patron that 
the worst had happened. 

Lepadou pacified all parties with a liberal 
application of that which is known in Paris 
argot as “galette” (“paste”), and would 
listen to no details till they were outside. At 
the mention of the marrons he interjected: 

“What! You found candies in the Bon- 
coeur house, and didn’t tell me?” 

“I didn’t have the nerve, boss. For after 
I’d hooked ’em from Jayne’s room, de gypsy 
cops ’em off a me w’ile I was restin’ on de 
curbstone, as easy ’s if I was a child. But 
I only meant to git ’em ag’in before I told 
yeh.” 

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” groaned 
the detective, when he had heard the whole 
story of his subordinate’s activities. “You 
didn’t get the marrons, you know nothing 
about the marrons, and we’ve let Jayne slip 
through our fingers. However, I’ve too 
much to do to stand here and cry over spilled 
milk.” 

“An’ w’at am I to do?” asked Le Sque- 
lette as the other turned to go. 

[ 191 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


4 4 You f ’ ’ Lepadou laughed with a sudden 
return of good nature. 4 4 Far be it from me 
to attempt to dictate your movements. The 
mistake in the first place was in putting you 
in a subordinate position. Hereafter kindly 
follow your own inclinations, and report to 
me what you think best—and at your own 
time.” 

44 Gee! He’s rubbin’ it in,” sniffed the 
boy, left standing alone on the sidewalk. 
* 4 But I will dig up somethin’. That’ll show 
’em.” 

The Boncoeur house was by this time 
beginning to empty itself of the futile 
policemen who had been sent there as if in 
response to a riot call when the news of 
Jayne’s disappearance first reached the 
commissariat. Boussai and Forgeron had 
questioned everybody, but unearthed noth¬ 
ing save the stale secret of Jayne’s window 
shutter. When even these two finally with¬ 
drew to the concierge’s lodge, where there 
was at least the promise of a little refresh¬ 
ment, Madame Boncoeur wheeled herself 

[ 192 ] 


DISAPPEARANCES PROM SCENE 

from the dining-room to the foot of the 
stairs, and called to Pierre Noyeau. 

He had just returned from a hurried visit 
to the usines, and came down to her at once. 
Then he gently wheeled her into Jayne’s 
deserted room, where they might talk with¬ 
out fear of interruption. 

“I don’t know what I would do without 
you, Pierre,” she sighed, her eyes lighting 
up—and, robbed of their habitual coldness, 
they seemed like any other eyes. “ Ninette 
gone. Jayne gone. You are all I have left. 
And now I’ll never be able to call you son.” 

“It’s not your fault, and you’ve always 
been like a mother to me. Besides, we’re 
going to get Jayne back.” 

Madame Boncoeur shook her head. 

“No; we’ll never find her. And I’m to 
blame. I thought she cared for you, so I told 
her what plans we’d made. There must be 
another man in this, Pierre, or she would 
never have been driven to such a step.” 

“I’m afraid there is—and I think I’ve 
seen him.” 

“Who?” 


[ 193 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“I don’t know his name. But we passed 
a man one day when we were out, and he 
looked at Jayne very strangely.” 

“Probably you’re right, then. But I’d 
rather she’d had her lover—any lover— 
rather than this. If I’d only cut out my 
tongue!” 

“Just what did you tell her?” asked 
Noyeau, resting a hand on her shoulder. 

“I caught her coming in at night through 
this wretched shutter of hers, and I was 
frightened. But she said she had been out 
looking to meet you. So I told her that you 
and she were to be married as soon as it 
would be decent to permit it. If only you 
hadn’t fancied you were in love with Ninette 
in the first place, Jayne could have been 
brought up to think of you. What ever 
possessed you not to prefer Jayne?” 

Noyeau stepped back so that the emotion 
which for a moment showed itself in his face 
could not be seen by the woman in the chair, 
and responded carelessly after a pause: 

“We mustn’t reproach each other for 
what is past.” 


[ 194 ] 


DISAPPEARANCES FROM SCENE 


“No, no! I’m not reproaching you, 
though you’re the only one who ever dared 
to be headstrong in this house. You know 
what obstacles are to me.” 

“Let us surmount them, then. I shall try 
to find Jayne, that’s the first thing. She is 
so young and inexperienced that whatever 
she had done she-” 

Before Noyeau could finish, hysterical 
shrieks sounded from the floor above; then 
Charlotte’s voice, crying: 

‘ 6 The master! The master! Oh, my God! 
Quel malheur! What is going to happen to 
us all?” 

“What is it, Charlotte?” demanded Noy¬ 
eau, stepping out into the hall. 

At the same moment Boussai and Forge- 
ron came bounding up from below stairs. 

“What is the matter?” 

“Stop that horrible noise and tell us what 
is wrong.” 

“The master!” repeated Charlotte, her 
voice breaking on a shrill note. 

The three men pushed past her and ar¬ 
rived together at Boncoeur’s bedchamber. 

[ 195 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


The door stood open, as did the window 
beyond, and at first sight the empty room 
gave no sign of anything extraordinary. 
Over the edge of the window-sill, however, 
there was the end of a cord. It had been 
wrenched from one of the Venetian blinds, 
and was securely tied to the radiator. The 
other end led out into space. 

‘ ‘ Hanged himself! ’ ’ muttered Boussai, 
looking from the window to the lifeless body 
which dangled beneath. 


[ 196 ] 


CHAPTER XII 
Forgeron Tries His Hand 


M RS. CITIT, the cook, felt that her 
patience was nearing an end. She 
had submitted to three official in¬ 
terrogatories with what she considered a 
wonderful degree of forbearance. And 
when, late in the evening after the inquest 
on the body of Boncoeur, she saw Forgeron 
enter her kitchen evidently with the inten¬ 
tion to commandeer a repast, it looked as if 
irresistible force was about to meet the 
immovable obstacle at last. 

But the immovable obstacle was a trench¬ 
ant female, of the sort that habitually stands 
with its arms akimbo, and before her two 
hundred pounds of authoritative fat the 
officer’s two hundred and fifty of mere 
muscle began to lose confidence. 

“What are you hanging around for?” the 
cook demanded, pressing her advantage. 

[ 197 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“Haven’t you cops seen enough crimes hap¬ 
pen under your noses? Or are you hopin’ 
to be present when the end comes, and the 
rest of us here finds ourselves with our 
throats cut?” 

“I was only goin’ to ask you,” stammered 
Forger on, “I was only goin’ to ask you for 
a fryin’-pan and some eggs.” 

Mrs. Cuit, who had expected a request for 
prepared food, abandoned her commanding 
pose in front of the range and lifted her 
hands in astonishment. 

“A fryin’-pan and some eggs,” she re¬ 
peated. “What do you want with eggs ?” 

“I’d like to break them into a bowl rubbed 
with garlic, if you’ll let me fix one,” said the 
inspector with returning assurance. “Say 
half a dozen eggs, if you don’t mind. Then 
I was allowing to beat them up a bit—not too 
much—with a silver fork, and put in some 
salt and pepper. And if you’ve got a fryin’- 
pan that’s always been cleaned without 
water—say by bein’ heated up with a little 
salt and wiped dry with paper—I thought 
maybe I’d grease it and stir the eggs a few 

[ 198 ] 



FORGERON TRIES HIS HAND 


seconds in the pan, and in about five minutes 
turn out what you might call an omelet/ ’ 
“Mon Dieu! If you can use your hands 
as well as you do your tongue, I’ll have to 
look out for my job.” 

But she produced the articles required, 
and watched—with the air of a music critic 
at a piano recital—while the police officer 
went through the motions he had outlined. 
And at the crucial moment, when the omelet 
had to be neatly folded over upon itself, she 
even put into his hands the thin-bladed 
instrument with which the feat must be 
accomplished. Forgeron wielded the ‘ ‘ slice, ’ ’ 
as this instrument is called, with the firm 
touch of a master, exposing an undersurface 
of egg cooked to a delicious brown. 

“As I’m alive, you’ve done it! Here, sit 
down at the table. You’ll want some coffee 
with that. I ’ll have it ready in a jiffy. And 
say a chop or two. Why haven’t you 
dropped into the kitchen before ? I declare, 
I believe I’ll have another bite myself—and 
something to wash it down with.” 

In five minutes the two experts were 

[ 199 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


chatting like old friends, Forgeron dilating 
eloquently on the wonder of the chops, coffee 
and creamed potatoes which had been set be¬ 
fore him, smacking his lips after every swal¬ 
low of the old bottled ale, and listening with 
rapt attention to the bits of culinary wis¬ 
dom which formed the staple of Mrs. Cuit’s 
conversation; while she on her side conde¬ 
scended to ask him for several of his recipes, 
even going so far as to taste of the omelet 
and to pronounce it “ pretty good for any¬ 
body and wonderful for a flic.” 

Forgeron beamed. He had not dreamed 
that the ruse suggested by Lepadou could 
succeed so well. But he was careful not to 
force the situation, and it was not till several 
days had gone by and these feasts became a 
regular nightly routine, that anything was 
said save in the most general way of the dark 
mysteries which had come upon the house. 
Then finally the cook led up to the subject 
herself by exclaiming: 

“Ain’t this like life, now? Here we are, 
enjoyin’ ourselves—and three in the family 
already dead and gone, or worse. You 

[ 200 ] 


FORGERON TRIES HIS HAND 

ought to be ashamed, cornin’ around at such 
a time with your blague ” 

“I’m as sorrowful as it’s possible for a 
man to be with two helpings of such a salad 
as yours inside of him, Mrs. Cuit. And I 
do feel how it’s hard on the mistress, losing 
a husband and two daughters.” 

“Cut down her part about two-thirds,” 
said the cook. “Le Glagon ain’t cryin’ her 
eyes out over the old man, or over Ninette 
either.” 

“Le Glagon?” 

“Yes. I found out when I first come to 
this house that that was the name some folks 
had for Madame Boncoeur. And an icicle 
she is, though she’s fond enough of M’sieu 
Noyeau, and certainly doted on Jayne.” 

“She didn’t love Ninette?” 

“Ninette? Well, I could just tell you a 
thing or two about that—if I had a mind.” 

“But I thought she was the spoiled 
child?” 

“Maybe she was. You think that’s the 
same thing? Shows how much you know 
about love, M’sieu Forgeron.” 

[ 201 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“I’m learnin’ more every evenin’, 
though,” said the policeman, suppressing a 
groan and consciously extending his arm 
towards his neighbor’s waist. 

“Stuff!” 

The Amazon lifted a salad-fork—threat¬ 
eningly but without malice. 

“We’re too old for such nonsense,” she 
went on with a sigh. “You like my salad; 
I like your intelligence and handsome figure. 
That’s enough. Though if you weren’t with 
the police I could even go further and make 
you my friend. A body does need someone 
to talk to in dreadful times like these.” 

“I don’t belong to the police to any 
injurious extent,” Forgeron protested in an 
injured tone. “If you knew what I had to 
put up with! When it comes to talkin’, 
maybe I could say a thing or two, myself.” 

“You mean you don’t tell the commissaire 
everything you know?” 

“Boussai? Come now, do you tell every¬ 
thing to Le Gla§on, as you call her ? I obey 
orders. But I keep my theories to myself. 

[ 202 ] 


FORGERON TRIES HIS HAND 


A poor inspecteur ain’t expected to know 
anything.” 

“If it ain’t just like being a cook!’’ Mrs. 
Cuit emptied half a pint down her spacious 
throat and gazed pensively at the bottom of 
the glass. “There’s Charlotte, here. She 
sides with the mistress as if she was one of 
the family. But I—I’m only so much dirt 
to either of ’em. At the same time, if a real 
murderer knew as much as I do he wouldn’t 
have to worry any. I could tell him a few 
things.” 

“Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, 
that I am the murderer,” put in Forgeron 
in an absent-minded tone. 

“La! And so you are—a lady-killer. 
That for your impudence—and for slan¬ 
derin’ the good heart you have, maybe, in 
spite of all!” 

Mrs. Cuit seized her guest’s face between 
her capable palms, and kissed him with the 
air of one surrendering to superior force. 
Settling back into her chair, she continued: 

“ I ’ll tell you this much. There was a time 

[ 203 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

once when Charlotte was near bein’ turned 
out into the street.” 

“You mean that Charlotte’s the one the 
real murderer could shift the crime to if he 
knew ? I thought it was Le Glagon. ’ ’ 

“Just you stick to your toddy, and let me 
finish. I don’t know who’s the real mur¬ 
derer. But Ninette never killed herself. 
Just lately she was beginnin’ to look happy. 
Anyone could have seen it.” 

“She wasn’t always happy?” 

“No. From the time I first came here it 
was always fine things and do as you please 
for Ninette, and hard work and stay at home 
for Jayne. But when anyone had any love 
to dispose of, it was Jayne that got it. One 
day Ninette had a finer present than ever—a 
pearl necklace fit for a queen. But you can 
bet I wouldn’t be mentionin’ it except in 
talkin’ this way, one friend to another, 
where nothing’ll be repeated so as to do 
harm. ’ ’ 

“I don’t see any harm in a necklace, any¬ 
way,” suggested Forgeron. 

“No? Well there was in this one, for it 

[ 204 ] 



FORGERON TRIES HIS HAND 

disappeared. And who do you suppose 
was suspected of takin’ it?” 

“Not Charlotte?” 

“Right, the first time. I heard Le Glagon 
call her a thief with my own ears. The neck¬ 
lace wasn’t found, but Charlotte stayed 
right on. What would you make of a thing 
like that, now, if it was to come to you in a 
case you was workin’ on?” 

“Looks almost like Charlotte havin’ some 
hold over the old woman, a sort of a set-off 
which made them cry quits.” 

“M’sieu Forgeron, your brains ain’t dll 
in your stomach—I can see that. And here’s 
another thing. That same necklace, or one 
so near like it as to be a miracle, was given to 
Jayne by her parents on her birthday—the 
day before Ninette died. Now what ?” 

“That’s a puzzler. It might mean they 
no longer cared what Ninette thought—that 
they looked on her as bein’ as good as dead 

already. Or- 5 ’ 

“Go on!” cried Mrs. Cuit. 

“—Or it might mean that they’d been 

[ 205 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


holdin’ off only for Jayne to get old enough 
to wear the jewelry.” 

“Yes.” 

“Or maybe,” concluded the inspector 
lamely, “it didn’t mean anything at all.” 

“I agree with every word you’ve said.” 
Mrs. Cuit paused only to refill the empty 
glasses. “But there’s more. Years ago, 
before I came, Ninette had a brother about 
her own age. She was very fond of him— 
so much so that the poor child got it into her 
head that it was wicked. And when he died 
she wrote a letter sayin’ that the angels had 
took him to save her soul from sin, and that 
she was goin’ to follow him. Romantic non¬ 
sense, of course, and nothin’ came of it. But 
her mother found that letter and kept it. 
Don’t ask me how I know. But she did.” 

“There are ways of findin’ out things,” 
said Forgeron, confidentially. 

“There are. And—well, her mother kept 
it. What for, what do you think? Ask 
Charlotte, and she could tell you. She kept 
it —to use when the time came! 

“It came when the hunt was goin’ on for 

[ 206 ] 


FORGERON TRIES HIS HAND 


the lost necklace. Ninette got sick. Maybe 
it was from worryin’ about her jewels. 
But it was only a heavy cold at first. Then 
she got worse. The doctor was sent for. 
And—will you believe me? It wasn’t the 
regular family doctor, but a new one—a 
dreadful looking man. That very morning 
I’d heard Le Glagon call Charlotte a thief, 
and seen Charlotte go to pack up her things. 

“But as the doctor came out she slipped 
into the sick-room, and at that minute Nin¬ 
ette got up out of bed and threw the medicine 
out of the window—not only what the doctor 
had left but some that her mother had been 
givin’ her. Charlotte turns to Le Glagon, 
who was in the room, and begins to cry. I 
was just outside the door—hid, you might 
say, behind a coat-rack that was standin’ in 
the hall, and I’m not ashamed to own it. 
Someone had to be on the lookout when 
things like this was goin’ on.” 

“I should say so, Mrs. Cuit. But—Char¬ 
lotte began to cry?” 

“Yes, and to scream: ‘I may be a thief, 
but I ain’t no murderess, and I don’t keep 

[ 207 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


silly girls’ suicide letters in hopes of cov¬ 
erin’ up my tracks afterwards.’ Her very 
words, and I ’m not likely to forget ’em in a 
hurry. While we’d supposed her to be 
packin’, she’d been huntin’ through Madame 
Boncoeur’s papers. She’d found that letter. 
And when she takes it out and waves it, Le 
Glagon collapsed on the floor. It was her 
first stroke—she’s had a second one since— 
and I had to be sent for to help get her on a 
bed. Some day she’ll have a third, and 
that’ll finish her.” 

Forgeron moistened his throat. 

“Has—has Charlotte that letter yet?” 

“Who knows? Moles vous vos affaires — 
mind your own business—that’s my motto— 
and keep a quiet tongue in your head if you 
don’t want to come to harm. And I always 
acts upon it. ’ ’ 

“A good motto, too,” affirmed Forgeron. 
“Why should we waste our time on other 
people? For, after all—it’s a fine woman 
you are, Mrs. Cuit, say what you will against 
my mentionin ’ it. ” 

[208] 






FORGERON TRIES HIS HAND 


“La! You can talk like that, and death 
all around us. ’ ’ 

The fine woman leaned towards the flat¬ 
terer as if to emphasize the reproof by 
threatening annihilation. But Forger on 
bore up under his burden like Atlas beneath 
a world, and it was from a head safely sup¬ 
ported by his ample chest that the following 
words proceeded: 

“Death all around us, right in this very 
kitchen, maybe, ready to take me after the 
others. And you, monster that you are—you 
would talk to me of love if I would let you. 
I know you very well. You don’t care what 
happens to me.” 

“How can you say that?” groaned the 
officer. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t. It might be taken 
by heaven for impiety, and then— ugh!” 

A shudder comparable to a seismic dis¬ 
turbance shook the speaker, whose own 
words had raised before her a specter of 
dread against which not even a man seemed 
sufficient protection. 

“I’m afraid!” she choked, beginning to 

[ 209 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


dampen Forgeron’s waistcoat with tears. 
“And there’s somethin’ even you’ve been 
afraid to mention. Yet I know you’re 
thinkin’ about it all the time.” 

“What?” 

“M’sieu Boncoeur. His window opened 
on an air-shaft and not direct on the court, 
you must have noticed that.” 

“Yes, but-” 

“Why, then nobody saw him. How do we 
know that he jumped out with that rope 
around his neck? Maybe he had to jump.” 

“It isn’t possible,” said Forgeron, sooth¬ 
ingly, yet with an undertone of agitation in 
his voice. “Noyeau was downstairs talking 
to Madame Boncoeur. Boussai and I were 
with the concierge, and there were no other 
men in the house. Besides, he left a note.” 

“Maybe it was forged.” 

“But it isn’t likely that a woman could 
force him to hang himself, even if a man 
could.” 

“You make it worse,” gasped Mrs. Cuit., 
“If it wasn’t a man or a woman, what was 
it that he saw? Ninette, Jayne, the mas- 

[ 210 ] 



FORGrERON TRIES HIS HAND 


ter—all gone, and only those two old witches, 
Charlotte and Le Gla^on, left. It begins to 
look supernatural. I hardly have the cour¬ 
age to eat my own cooking, and I wouldn’t 
stay here another minute if it wasn’t for a 
big blageur who comes sometimes to wheedle 
a poor soul out of a dinner and means 
to rob her of who knows what before he’s 
through.” 

Forgeron made no comment, for his 
thoughts had shot off on a startled tangent. 
Speaking of disappearances, why, come to 
think, he knew of another one. Where was 
Lepadou ? He had not seen the great detec¬ 
tive now for days and days. 


[211] 


CHAPTER XIII 
Le Squelette’s Promenade 


I E SQUELETTE was like a dog without 
, a master, though at first the prospect 
of being left to his own resources 
hadn’t been so bad. He had wanted a little 
time in which to retrieve himself. But when 
all Paris began to echo with the news of 
Boncoeur being found hanging out of a win¬ 
dow at the end of a rope, and still Lepadou 
persisted in giving no signs of life, the boy 
for once lost confidence. 

There was no use in arguing that the boss 
had often been missing before, and for days 
instead of hours, or that his enemies, who¬ 
ever they were, must be of necessity weak 
and brainless fellows compared with the 
boss himself. Ordinarily that sort of thing 
was all verv well. But one was alone now, 
and without even the heart to boast. The 

[ 212 ] 


LE SQUELETTE’S PROMENADE 

first night after the beginning of his inde¬ 
pendence he cried himself to sleep, quite like 
an ordinary child, and even in the days that 
followed he had to confess to all manner of 
unmanly longings. 

“Gee!” he muttered one afternoon as he 
wandered aimlessly through the Latin Quar¬ 
ter. “I b’lieve I’m beginnin’ to miss my 
mother—an’ I never had one.” 

At that moment his feelings were much 
relieved by the sight of Francois, the false 
messenger, approaching alone and unsus¬ 
pecting. Le Squelette had sought Francois 
not only in vain but with the haunting sus¬ 
picion that the boy, while keeping out of 
sight, was covertly watching him. He had 
also felt a growing animosity towards him¬ 
self among the other gamins of the neighbor¬ 
hood, which he laid at Frangois’ door. Who 
else could have invented that offensive ex¬ 
pression, “flic’s gosse,” (detective’s stool- 
pigeon) which now not infrequently greeted 
his ear when he attempted to join a group 
of his former companions ? 

“Dis is w’at I calls a good day,” he 

[ 213 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


gloated as he seized the surprised Francois 
by the wrists. 

“Qu’y a t’il? What’re you goin’ to do?” 

“T’row yeh into de river, of course. W’y 
didn’t yeh go to Les Deux Chiens like I told 
yeh?” 

“I did,” cried the other boy, struggling 
helplessly. ‘ 4 Your man wasn’t there. ’ ’ 

“ W ’y didn’t yeh come an ’ tell me ? ’ ’ 

They had reached the pont neuf by this 

time, and Le Squelette was intent on a plan 

to launch his captive over the parapet. But 

he remembered in time that he had already 

too manv indiscretions to his account. 

* 

“I’ll do it next time,” he threatened, 
releasing his hold. “Just you keep away 
from me.” 

This was a tame ending to what had prom¬ 
ised to be an exciting episode, but he was 
trying to be worthy of the master whom he 
had already begun to lament as dead. For 
by this time he was beginning to suspect that 
not even Lepadou’s was the last disappear¬ 
ance to be added to the long list. 

It was being kept quiet. Nothing was 

[ 214 ] 


LE SQUELETTE’S PROMENADE 

said of it in the papers. But it was certain 
that Pierre Noyeau had left the manage¬ 
ment of the usines to other hands, and was 
no longer to be found at any of the places 
which he had formerly frequented. The 
gossip in these places said that he was away 
looking for Jayne. But what if it should be 
false ? What if there were some monstrous 
thing or influence at work % There certainly 
seemed to be—something which swallowed 
people up without sound or forewarning. 

Of the gypsy nothing had been seen, 
either. But as if to make up for this, Le 
Squelette had been approached by a younger 
and altogether different sort of woman— 
almost a fine lady, though something tawdry 
in her note of elegance did not escape his 
practiced powers of observation. She had 
followed him into the Luxembourg and 
asked him flatly what had become of “that 
dear M’sieu Lepadou.” 

“Aw, he ain’t bearin ’ 9 the likes of you,” 
had been his retort. 

Whereupon she had looked so unhappy 

[ 215 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


that he was sorry, and asked her quite civilly 
what it was that she wanted. 

11 There was an important business matter 
he was to look after,” she answered. “He 
promised to write, and hasn’t. You’re his 
boy, so I thought you’d know where I could 
find him. ’ ’ 

“How’d yeh know I was his boy?” 

“He told me.” 

“How’d yeh know I was the one he told 
yeh about?” 

‘ ‘ I mean—he pointed yeh out. ’ ’ 

“Now I know you’re lyin’. He’d never 
give away my disguise . Yeh has been 
snoopin’ around, dat’s all, an’ yeh better git 
out w’ile the gittin’ is good.” 

He wondered now if he ought to have 
attempted to shadow her. Could it be that 
she had some connection with the Boncoeur 
affair? It seemed likely enough, and if he 
ever succeeded in getting in touch with any 
of the actors in that drama again it would 
be through some such unexpected channel as 
this. One’s brain didn’t work when one 

[ 216 ] 


/ 


LE SQUELETTE’S PROMENADE 

was lonesome. • But regrets were useless, 
and- 

Was it possible that fate could be as good 
as this? There, bearing down upon him 
from the other end of the bridge, was the 
tawdry lady herself. 

“W’at yeh want now?” he demanded, as 
she halted before him. 

“I’ve been thinking—Le Squelette is your 
name, isn’t it?” 

“Never mind me name.” 

“Anyway, I’ve been thinking—you must 
know where your master is. And there is 
something I want to tell him. I’ve decided 
to tell it to you. ’ ’ 

“Tellin’ is free, lady.” 

“Yes, but not here. Somebody might see 
us. Will you come with me ?” 

“Not much. I’ve had me stomach full of 
cornin’ wid folks. Maybe yeh lives in a cel¬ 
lar. I’ve had enough of cellars, whether dey 
belongs to young women or old.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by cellars. 
But come, anyway, and walk along the street 

[ 217 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

if you’re afraid. Aren’t you interested in 
Jayne? I’ll tell you as we go.” 

Le Squelette hesitated. But the tempta¬ 
tion once more to rely upon himself was too 
strong, and with only the slightest shiver of 
apprehension, he permitted his guide to lead 
him from the crowded boulevard into that 
quiet region which extends to the left as one 
walks from the Seine towards the heights of 
Montparnasse. And this time, as the sequel 
proved, he was to have no reason to regret 
his journey. 


[ 218 ] 


CHAPTER XIY 
Two Views of Avignon 
^ADOTT, having finally decided to 



probe the mystery of Ninette’s death, 


Squid or no Squid, refused to be 
turned aside by the current of subsequent 
events. He even put off investigating the 
woman in the Bois and the disappearance of 
Jayne, while the news of Boncoeur’s tragic 
end, when it finally reached him, merely 
spurred him on to follow the original trail. 

He had, in fact, established himself at 
Avignon, at the Hotel de l’Europe, under a 
false name and as an American tourist—and 
all on account of a packet of cigarettes, a 
box of matches and five words in a news¬ 
paper. The words were these: “bridegroom 
has estates near Avignon,” from the item in 
the old copy of “Le Figaro” describing 
L’Alouette’s marriage to the Count de 
Montfayat. 


[ 219 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Now Avignon is in the Midi, a region 
liable to be rendered almost uninhabitable 
for days at a time in any season of the year 
by that chilly and indescribably disagree¬ 
able northwest wind known as the mistral. 
The Tison match—the sort that was found 
in Ninette’s room—is here in almost univer¬ 
sal use. It is in the same section of the south 
of France that the Levant cigarette is most 
common—probably because, being so poorly 
made, the inhabitants of regions less accus¬ 
tomed to discomfort refuse to tolerate it. 

Three very slender threads, and hardly 
amounting to a clew even when taken to¬ 
gether. But the detective could not get rid 
of the conviction that the girl had been away 
from home just prior to the tragedy, and 
that something important had happened. 
The absence of any reference to the visit in 
Boussai’s proces-verbal proved nothing but 
that the family might have had some motive 
sufficiently strong to induce them to unite in 
a scheme of concealment. 

So to Avignon, that ancient city of the 
popes, he went, choosing it as the most likely 

[ 220 ] 


TWO VIEWS OP AVIGNON 

spot, and for several days did nothing which 
a genuine tourist might not have done. 

He admired the ramparts—those great 
walls which, in a wonderful state of preser¬ 
vation, enclose the town and make of it one 
of the most perfect examples of surviving 
medievalism in Europe. He explored the 
abandoned Chartreuse monastery at Ville- 
neuve, across the river; saw the fourteenth 
century ivory Virgin; watched the quaint 
water-mills along the rue des Teinturiers; 
set his watch by the moving figure of Le 
Jaquemart above the clock of the Mairie; 
visited the bullring; tried to imagine the 
splendid pageantry of other days as he 
looked up at the austere f agade of the Palais 
des Papes; climbed to see the matchless bells 
of the cathedral, which bathe all Avignon 
a dozen times a day in a limpid flood of 
the music of the Church; wondered at the 
bridge, with the chapel of St. Benezet at its 
ruined center, which is said to have been 
built over the Rhone in obedience to a 
dream; frequented the fine shops that—in 
streets too narrow for any kind of wheeled 

[ 221 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


traffic—excite the admiration of visitors; 
mingled with the crowds which all night long 
throng the Place Hotel de Ville at the end 
of the one modern thoroughfare that runs 
from the station; reveled in the beauty of 
that elevated park—it would be called a 
mesa in the West—once the garden of the 
popes and still worthy of the name—which 
yields such a superb view over the tiled roofs 
of the town; saw from this vantage-point 
the towers of Fort St. Andre, the tower of 
Philippe le Bel, and (on clear days) the 
summit of Mont Venteux, famous for its 
vipers. And he took his coffee regularly at 
the Cafe des Negociants. 

This was not the way a detective would be 
expected to work, but he believed that some 
extraordinary personality—whether Marie’s 
or not—lay at the back of the puzzle he had 
set out to solve—a personality which would 
never be uncovered by expected and conven¬ 
tional means. So why not begin by feeling 
out the spirit of this strange old town ? Cer¬ 
tainly nobody would ever expect him to do 
that. 


[ 222 ] 





TWO VIEWS OF AVIGNON 


He soon began to sense, too, that he was 
accomplishing something, though he con¬ 
tinued to reproach himself for paying any 
attention to such intangible impressions as 
those which filled his mind. 

One day, from the high summit of the gar¬ 
dens, while looking across the river to the 
square-shouldered tower of Philippe le Bel, 
built in the time of Jeanne d’Arc, he saw a 
tiny white object fluttering from a window 
near the very top of the tower, for all the 
world like a handkerchief waved by an out¬ 
stretched arm. The tower, he knew, had 
long been in charge of the French govern¬ 
ment, which busies itself with the repair and 
upkeep of every monument of great artistic 
or historic interest in the country. And 
since it was not down on the list of buildings 
made accessible to tourists, it was not likely 
that the tower was visited by a single human 
being for months and months at a time. The 
more singular for it to show signs of being 
inhabited now. 

He unslung his field-glasses and studied 
the fluttering white spot attentively. The 

[ 223 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


result was disappointing. At that distance— 
nearly half a mile—it was impossible to be 
sure that it was even a handkerchief, though 
it still looked rather like one. But it was 
certainly not being waved by anybody. 
Either it was tied to one of the bars of the 
window, or had accidentally caught there. 

Lepadou was conscious of an impulse 
to investigate further, but he ignored it. 
Really, he was becoming too impractical. It 
would be no great feat for the mistral to lift 
a handkerchief or any other handy bit of 
cloth from some neighboring clothes-line, 
and fling it up against the gratins . Before 
it blew away again it might easily have 
rusted fast to the rough and crumbling iron. 
Rationally considered, the tower promised 
nothing at all. 

But that other instinctive feeling, the 
sense of the city itself having a secret, was 
harder to crush down. It had come upon 
him gradually as he watched the horrible 
specimens of humanity that crept out upon 
the Place after nightfall, chiefly from the 
direction of the rue des Grottes. Explora- 

[ 224 ] 




TWO VIEWS OP AVIGNON 

tion of the rue des Grottes in the daytime 
showed it to be the worst slum of which he 
had any knowledge—a slum built of age- 
defying stone. The streets of the quarter 
were not only unbelievably narrow, dark and 
crooked, but steep—often mere flights of 
steps—mere paths—over which trickled a 
liquid ooze, the odor of which followed him 
almost to his own hotel. The inhabitants 
were ragged, deformed, leprous. 

He had thought at first that Avignon was 
the most beautiful city he had ever seen, and 
sometimes when the air was vibrating with 
the golden concussions of its innumerable 
bells, had caught himself wondering if this 
were not the place to look for some surviving 
remnant of the unreckoning heroism, devo¬ 
tion and romance of the Middle Ages. 

But he began finally to realize that a city 
which could tolerate those verminous crea¬ 
tures from the rue des Grottes must have 
something wrong about it. The faces he saw 
at some of the wine-shops did much to help 
this belief, as did the altogether too numer¬ 
ous accounts of midnight killings to be found 

[ 225 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


in the daily papers. And was there not in 
the suburbs that horrible little inclosure 
where bullfights were held every Sunday 
afternoon ? Not the devotion and heroism 
of the Middle Ages, but their darkness, 
cruelty and degredation—that was what 
had come down. From being a holy city, 
Avignon had become as fine a spot for the 
perpetration of strange villainies as any 
upon earth. 

“If there were a monster criminal who 
didn’t have the luck to be born here,” he 
ruminated, “he’d certainly be drawn to the 
place by sheer fascination. It may be merely 
moonshine. But I feel—it’s as if even the 
dreadful reek of some of these gutters were 
trying to tell me something—or trying not 
to tell. I don’t know.” 

It was in the Cafe des Negociants, how¬ 
ever—a resort entirely modern, respectable 
and neither sublime nor degraded—that 
he found a man who could give him facts 
instead of atmosphere. 

M’sieu Niort was a stoop-shouldered, in¬ 
significant little citizen, who wore spectacles 

[ 226 ] 


TWO VIEWS OF AVIGNON 


and an air of genteel poverty. He saw 
Lepadou reading an English paper, and 
introduced himself as one who spoke “some 
of the English, too”—a pretext quite suffi¬ 
cient for the sort of bore which Niort proved 
to be. 

He was a collector of local antiquities, and 
at once began to recite the history of the 
region from the days of Christ down to 
the time when the wife of J. Stewart Mill 
was taken ill while visiting Avignon with 
her philosopher husband, and died there. 

The detective was patient, hoping that 
among so much chaff there would finally 
appear a little wheat. So the next day he 
not only permitted his new acquaintance to 
conduct him to the cemetery and to Mrs. 
Mills’ grave, but let him lead him through 
the Papal Palace and the gardens—all as if 
he had never seen any of these places before. 

From the heights of the gardens Niort 
grew eloquent over the view across the 
valley. 

“Do you see that old gray chateau off 
there to the south ? ” he said finally, pointing. 

[ 227 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


i ‘ It looks like a stone thumb from here, but 
it’s the property of the late Count de Mont- 
fayat, and well worth a visit.” 

“I’d like to go there,” said Lepadou, con¬ 
cealing his sudden interest under a tone of 
mere politeness. “It’s abandoned now, I 
suppose?” 

“Abandoned? No, since the count’s death 
his widow lives there—though so quietly 
that few people are ever invited inside the 
grounds. But if you’d been here a month 
or so ago—it’s nearer two months now—she 
gave a ball. In fact she had guests for 
several weeks, and quite came out of her 
seclusion.” 

“Young guests?” 

“Some of them. There was one—a very 
beautiful young lady—who used to come 
driving into town almost every day with a 
gentleman of about her own age—or a little 
more—who was staying there.” 

Niort did not know the young lady’s name, 
though he understood that she was related to 
the countess. 

“It was Ninette, by all the powers!” 

[ 228 ] 





TWO VIEWS OF AVIGNON 

thought Lepadou, but he did not speak. 

“I m et the young gentleman,” Niort went 
on. “He came in here one day, and we 
got to talking. He calls himself M’sieu 
Benson.” 

Lepadou suppressed a start. 

“I thought it extraordinary,” persisted 
Niort, “for it’s almost the same as Bienson, 
the family name of the old count.” 

Lepadou rose from his seat with a sudden¬ 
ness which barely escaped being a leap. 
Bienson, Comte de Montfayat! He had 
had a son by his first wife. What more 
likely than that L’Alouette, his widow, being 
sought out by this long-unheard-of young 
scapegrace, had tried to do justice to every¬ 
body who might think themselves entitled to 
her estate by planning a match between him 
and her own daughter ? That would imply 
that the count was not that daughter’s 
father. But the same supposition would 
explain her anxiety to foist Ninette upon 
the family of her wardrobe-woman, and 
made the girl’s identity clearer than ever. 
The old count’s son might have been the St. 

[ 229 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Cloud lover, even then hovering around the 
unknown and carefully disowned child of 
the singer. 

And there was Jayne—had she not been 
on her way to keep an appointment with a 
man named Benson when last seen alive? 
The juge d’instruction thought that the 
count’s son had gone to America. Changing 
Bienson to Benson would be just the thing 
he’d be likely to do in the United States. It 
w r ould almost do itself. 

Benson and Bienson, then, were one. 
Here at last seemed to be the filament con¬ 
necting the beautiful Avignon—scene of 
past splendors and present social gayeties— 
with the vile Avignon, fit locale for crime 
and betrayal. There was a single man with 
two characters. It seemed to connect, too, 
the fate of Jayne with that of Ninette. 

He fairly raced for the Rhone side of the 
gardens, and once more turned his glasses 
on the tower of Philippe le Bel. 

“What now?” cried Niort as he came 
panting up. “I thought you’d been stung 
by a viper.” 


[ 230 ] 


TWO VIEWS OF AVIGNON 


‘ ‘ Just happened to think of something. I 
wanted to catch a view of the sunset. But 
it isn’t as gorgeous as usual.” 

“ You’ve got the wrong direction,” 
laughed the bore. 

“No matter,” said the detective. “It’s a 
bit early, anyway. But I would like to visit 
the countess’ chateau. Could we arrange it 
for to-morrow?” 

Niort eagerly assenting, he put away his 
binoculars and prepared to return to his 
hotel. The fluttering white spot had gone 
from Philippe le Bel. It had only been a 
wind-blown rag, then, and not a handker¬ 
chief tied in place to serve as a signal of 
distress. 

Besides, what was he thinking of ? Jayne 
had gone away voluntarily. And if Benson 
had meant well enough by her to bring her 
to Avignon, surely he would have taken her 
to the suburban home of his ancestors. All 
this reasoning was wrong. There was 
nothing whatever to connect Jayne with a 
possible thieves’ haunt like the tower. 


[ 231 ] 


CHAPTER XV 

The Tower of Philippe le Bel 

J AYNE had set out to keep her appoint¬ 
ment with the fairy prince without 
dreaming that the accommodating hoy, 
who had taken her letter and refused a tip, 
had more than squared accounts by subse¬ 
quently breaking the seal and betraying her 
secret to a detective. And in fact it was of 
no consequence. For before she had gone 
six blocks Le Squelette was busy with the 
gypsy, and Francois, his messenger, was 
taking a route which certainly would never 
bring him to Lepadou. So the situation was 
the same as if the correspondence had not 
been tampered with. 

It would be too much to say that Jayne 
was at ease in her mind. Yet she felt no 
particular disquiet until she saw a man step¬ 
ping out from behind a tree and planting 
himself squarely in her path. 

[ 232 ] 


THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 


‘ 4 Miss Jayne Boncoeur, I believe,’ ’ be said, 
respectfully touching his cap—a chauffeur’s 
cap, with the goggles shoved up so as to show 
a pale but not unattractive face. 1L Do not be 
afraid, please. Mr. Benson sent me here to 
tell you he couldn’t come to the intended 
place. And he wants to see you right away. 
I’m to take you to him, so he says.” 

“But who are you?” asked Jayne, trem¬ 
bling, notwithstanding the fellow’s almost 
obsequious manner. “How did you know 
where to look for me?” 

“I’m his man, Miss. And he told me to 
look for you somewhere along about here.” 

14 How did you know me ? ’ ’ 

“I didn’t. But he described you, and 
when I spoke your name you answered. 
There aren’t many people out at this hour. 
It’s pretty late.” 

It was late, and the old-fashioned gas 
lamps of the quarter merely served to em¬ 
phasize the emptiness of the thoroughfares. 
Jayne cast a timid glance around her, wish¬ 
ing that she had more experience to tell her 

[ 233 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

whether the situation was to be taken at its 
face value or otherwise. 

“Why couldn’t he come himself?” she 
ventured. 

“That I don’t know, Miss. But I think 
the young master is in some sort of trouble— 
that he’s afraid of being followed, if you’ll 
excuse my saying so. Anyway, he’s waiting 
for you just a few blocks from here. This is 
my machine, and if you’ll kindly get in ” 

He had led her to a waiting limousine, and 
she jumped in before he could finish. If the 
fairy prince was in trouble, that was another 
matter. Pierre, perhaps, was the one who 
was following him. Pierre had been morose 
and jealous ever since that unfortunate en¬ 
counter at Varene . And this was just a plan 
to escape his vigilance. 

She tried to banish another idea which 
had crossed her mind as she stood for a sec¬ 
ond, irresolute, with her foot upon the step 
of the car just before Benson’s trouble had 
been mentioned—the idea that if she hesi¬ 
tated too long the smooth-spoken stranger 
was prepared to seize her and thrust her into 

[ 234 ] 




THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 


the vehicle by force. It was too absurd. 
And yet when he got in and took a seat 
facing her instead of assuming a position at 
the wheel, while another chauffeur appeared 
from she could not say where and leaped 
into the driver’s place, she wished she had 
made more certain. It was strange that 
M’sieu Benson should keep two chauffeurs, 
and that one of them should have the imper¬ 
tinence to behave as a passenger. But his 
manner continued to be sufficiently deferen¬ 
tial. Also they were in motion. Before she 
had time to collect herself, they were draw¬ 
ing near to an open car. 

“There he is,” said her companion. 

Jayne tried to lower a window, only to 
find it stuck fast. But she saw someone 
turn and wave a hand towards her, making 
her heart give a grateful flutter of relief. 
At that instant the other car put on speed 
and drew rapidly ahead. 

“I want to get out and go to him,” she 
cried. “What is that driver thinking of? 
And why don’t we hurry ? ’ ’ 

[235 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“You recognized M’sieu Benson, didn’t 
you, Miss?” 

“Yes, but-” 

“Then it’s all right. He ordered us not 
to overtake him till we’re just outside the 
city.” 

There was something in the tone of this 
explanation which she did not like, and she 
suddenly became conscious of her impru¬ 
dence in starting out with her pearl necklace 
around her neck. But hadn’t she seen her 
lover with her own eyes? Since he knew 
where she was and where she was being 
taken, what could be amiss ? 

“I don’t blame you for being a little 
worried,” she heard her companion saying. 
“It’s an important step you’re taking. I 
hope you’ve considered it.” 

“What step ?” she cried, suddenly aroused 
by this burst of impertinence. 

“Why, I thought it was an elopement. 
Isn’t it? I’m a sort of confidential serv¬ 
ant. He tells me most things, and he let me 
think that this was a runaway between you 
two. Excuse my saying so, but the fact is 

[236 ] 



THE TOWER OP PHILIPPE LE BEL 


I don’t much like the job. If you’re not 
entirely keen on it yourself-” 

Jayne shrank back and hid her face in the 
cushions. She could say nothing now with¬ 
out having this odious servant trying to 
thrust himself into her confidence—a con¬ 
sideration which kept her silent for a long 
time. 

Street after street flew past the windows. 
They were beyond the barriere and at the 
beginning of a lonely road. Must this not 
be the place of rendezvous? Yes—the en¬ 
gine was being put to its best paces, as if 
bent upon overtaking the car ahead. But it 
never seemed to gain. She could see the tail 
lights of the forward car whenever the turn 
of the road afforded a view of the distance. 
Yet the quarter of a mile between the two 
vehicles did not lessen. 

Paris was miles behind now, and mon¬ 
strous images invaded her imagination—at 
first vaguely, then with ever-increasing dis¬ 
tinctness till it was only their very enormity 
which prevented her from accepting them 
as real. 


[237] 





THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“I never remember bearing Mr. Benson 
speak of yon,” she brought out at last, draw¬ 
ing the remnants of her courage together 
and confronting her companion. “What is 
your name?” 

“Some calls me La Haquenee, Miss. But 
it’s hardly a name.” 

‘ ‘ I never heard of it. ’ ’ 

The man lowered a window, and shouted 
to the chauffeur: 

“Listen to this. The young lady says she 
never heard of La Haquenee.” 

“Keep your mouth shut. Nobody hired 
you to pronounce names,” was the gruff 
answer. 

Jayne, thoroughly alarmed, stood up, 
clutching an arm-support. 

“Stop the car!” she cried. “Stop it and 
turn around. I shan’t go any farther. I 
don’t know where you are taking me.” 

“Don’t be a fool, little one,” said the man 
with the Apache name. “Here we are.” 

The car ahead had come to a standstill, 
and the limousine was soon nearly abreast 
of it. Then she saw a masked figure stand- 

[ 238 ] 


THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 


ing by the roadside bolding a leveled rifle, 
and beard an order shouted in raucous 
French: 

“Here you, Benson, get out and put up 
your bands.” 

Worse, the order was obeyed. Was there 
ever such a spectacle as that of the fairy 
prince in an attitude of surrender, and 
apparently without a thought of her ? The 
servants, too, were craven. Not one made 
the least sign of resistance. But suddenly the 
driver of her own car jerked a lever. The 
limousine leaped forward, and refused to 
stop even in response to a shot. 

“Good for you, Boquetin,” chuckled La 
Haquenee, crouching in his seat. “Give her 
the gas. 

“Nom d’un nom, that was a narrow 
squeak,” he went on, wiping his forehead 
with a dainty handkerchief. 1 6 My dear mas¬ 
ter was heeled, why didn’t he show a little 
spunk instead of letting us ride right up into 
the mess that way?” 

“But where are you taking me?” de- 

[239 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


manded Jayne. “We must go back and 
save him.” 

‘ 1 Save a yellow dog like that ? I think too 
much of my skin. ’ ’ 

La Haquenee lowered a window and 
had a whispered consultation with his com¬ 
panion. Then he re-closed the sash and 
remarked: 

“We’ve decided, Miss, that it wouldn’t be 
safe.” 

“But you must let me out! Why, I believe 
you’re highwaymen yourselves.” 

“Shouldn’t be surprised if we were. 
Anyway, we’ve got a boss of our own, now 
that Benson’s disposed of, and I’m sure he 
wouldn’t object to seeing a nice young lady. 
Why you, with your jewels and your rich 
father to pay for them and plenty more— 
you’re as simple and easy as a four-year-old. 
Just the age for kidnapping, in my opinion. ’ ’ 

Jayne was about to smash one of the panes 
with her elbow. But La Haquenee caught 
her, and when she began to scream forced a 
handkerchief into her mouth. It was use¬ 
less to struggle, but she struggled neverthe- 

[ 240 ] 



THE TOWER OP PHILIPPE LE BEL 


less and with the virgin energy of a wildcat. 
Her captor had mnscles of iron, but offered 
no violence save what was necessary to keep 
her from carrying out her threat. 

4 ‘ That’s better, ’ ’ he laughed, when she had 
grown so weak from exhaustion that he 
could manage her with one hand. “ You ’re 
a little previous with this sort of thing. 
What’s the use of trying to pound me? 
You’re not my game.” 

She felt a sharp sting in her arm. A de¬ 
licious sense of warmth stole through her 
veins, accompanied by an irresistible tend¬ 
ency in her eyelids to close. Immediately 
afterwards she was in a land of enchant¬ 
ment, half pleasant, half terrible, where the 
fairy prince seemed now a fairy indeed and 
now a grotesque hobgoblin. 

When she woke it was daylight, but the 
sun instead of climbing towards the zenith 
was settling to the horizon. The machine 
stood still by an empty stretch of road not 
far from a yellow, swift-flowing river. The 
landscape was wooded, without the sign of a 
habitation. The two men were on the front 

[ 241 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


seat, eating from a basket. Seeing her 
awake, La Haquenee handed her a sandwich. 

“Eat that,” he said, “and I’ll give you a 
cup of coffee. It’s cold, but we’re almost 
there and it will make you feel better while 
you’re having your next little nap.” 

She was hungry, and had taken both the 
sandwich and the coffee before the situation 
had even begun to be clear to her mind. 
There followed another period of oblivion 
and equivocal dreams. 

She was but half awake when she felt her¬ 
self being lifted and carried out of the car. 
Up and up and round and round she went, 
catching glimpses of something which ap¬ 
peared to be a circle of light flitting over the 
surface of gray stonework. She thought it 
must be a part of the dream, till finally she 
was deposited none too gently upon a cer¬ 
tainly substantial cot in a small, bare room, 
which for no apparent reason impressed her 
with a dizzy sense of being very, very far 
from the ground. 

There followed the heavy closing of a 
door, and Jayne was alone. 

[ 242 ] 


THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 

She couldn’t even yet be awake, she 
thought. But the cell-like room, whose walls 
of enormous gray stones were pierced only 
by a single window—and that too high for 
her to reach—had a very real appearance. 
Tet she was seeing it only by the pale light 
that came in through the grated opening, 
and her senses were not to be trusted. A 
natural sleep was trying to take her into its 
arms. Fatigue made resistance impossible, 
though she would have liked to investigate 
her surroundings, and the rest of the night 
was as sweet as the moonlight. 

And what wonderful moonlight it was. 
Could she have gone to the window and 
looked out, she would have seen an immense 
panorama of hills and valleys, and in the 
middle distance a gemlike city, all bathed in 
radiance and making a picture which would 
have caused the very existence of ugliness 
and wrong to seem like a half-forgotten 
illusion. 

In the morning she found that the walls 
of the room were indeed of stone, and the 
door of age-blackened oak hung upon enor- 

[ 243 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


mous wrought-iron hinges. The furniture 
consisted of the bed, a table, a chair and a 
few trifling conveniences, all of heavy and 
cumbrous construction. It was with the 
greatest difficulty that she dragged the table 
over to the window, and by standing upon it 
succeeded in looking out. She was in the 
topmost cell of an immense tower. Far 
below lay a winding and dusty road. Beyond 
that a magnificent river, and across the river 
the turrets and ramparts of such a town as 
one only expects to come upon in a picture 
book. 

Pressing her face against the window 
bars, she shouted with all her might. Peo¬ 
ple—mere specks they were—could be seen 
passing on the road below, but none of them 
looked up. A trumpet blast could not have 
reached them from that height. 

Then she took a handkerchief, and thrust¬ 
ing her arm out as far over the void as 
possible, waved it frantically. No one paid 
the least attention. It was very fatiguing, 
standing there on tip-toe, so finally she tied 

[ 244 ] 



THE TO WEE OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 


the handkerchief to one of the bars and sat 
down to think. 

“ Maybe the gypsy would have warned me 
of this if I had let her tell my fortune,” she 
mused. “Or maybe she was in the plot to 
capture me. If they are after my pearls, 
why don’t they take them? Father must be 
richer than I imagined if I’m really being 
held for a ransom.” 

As to the fairy jmince’s ignoble part in the 
affair, she tried to put it from her mind. 
Certainly there was something there which 
she did not understand. And having ar¬ 
ranged her toilet as well as she could, 
she began to wonder when breakfast was 
coming. 

Then she noticed a shelf upon which a 
meal was already set out on a tray. It dif¬ 
fered, this shelf, from everything else in her 
surroundings by being flimsy and new, and 
examining it more closely she saw that 
directly above it was a horizontal slit in the 
wall, covered outside by a board. She could 
not move the board, and the slit was, besides, 
too narrow to offer any hopes of escape. But 

[ 245 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


it was convenient, and evidently meant that 
she was not to be starved. 

With forced cheerfulness, she ate what 
she found before her. Surely her disappear¬ 
ance would make a stir. If it should only 
prove that the fairy prince were merely pre¬ 
tending to have surrendered, if he should 
he the one to pick up the trail of her captors 
and come to her rescue, that would make 
everything more than right. In her sublime 
ignorance of life, she could find comfort in 
this possibility and forget the vast gulf upon 
which the window looked out. 

She was on the watch when lunch time 
arrived, and saw the arm which pushed the 
second tray on the shelf. It was a man’s 
arm—rather thin and white, with the shirt¬ 
sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Beyond that 
she learned nothing, for there came no re¬ 
sponse to her call. Before the dinner hour 
arrived, she piled the first two trays on the 
shelf. This forced her unseen attendant to 
speak to her. He did, gruffly enough, and 
ordered her to take the trays away if she 
wanted anything to eat. The arm now was 

[ 246 ] 


THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 

hairy and weather-beaten. Evidently she 
was not in the tower with a single jailer, 
there was comfort in that. 

The following morning she found that she 
had been visited during the night, for the 
trays were gone and the room clean and in 
perfect order. Also breakfast was waiting, 
and with it a newspaper—a Paris news¬ 
paper nearly a week old. She spent most of 
the day at the window, for she had discov¬ 
ered that—owing to the thickness of the wall 
and the position of the bars—it would be 
impossible for anyone in the road to see her 
handkerchief unless she held it out. Unfor¬ 
tunately there was no stick to serve as a flag¬ 
staff. Nothing happened to distinguish this 
day from its predecessor, save that once the 
arm which appeared through the slit was 
clothed in a black sleeve with a clean white 
cuff protruding from beneath—all having a 
curious, twisted look. 

Yet another morning, and she found that 
her table had been taken away from the win¬ 
dow and securely fixed to the floor with 
screws. She was spied upon, then, and her 

[ 247 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


attempts to signal were known. It was a 
weary day, though this time a novel had been 
given her instead of a newspaper. Solitude 
was beginning to tell upon her spirits. She 
caught herself several times pacing the 
length of the floor and counting her steps— 
one, two, three, four, five, six—over and 
over again. 

There was one diversion, however. She 
had tried the chair, and found that by stand¬ 
ing upon its back she could still reach the 
window. After that she signaled regularly, 
but always for a very short time and only 
after she had covered up the slit in the wall. 

She began to lose track of time and wished 
that she had kept account of the days from 
the first. The novels which continued to be 
given her could no longer hold her attention 
nor protect her from a heavy despair which 
was settling upon her soul. Her brain kept 
revolving mechanically about the question 
of time without arriving at any conclusion. 
Therefore she was uncertain how long she 
had been in the tower when an evening 
arrived bringing with it a great change in 

[ 248 ] 


THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 

the bill of fare. Heretofore the food had 
been good but simple. This time it was quite 
a banquet. And among other things was a 
pot of steaming chocolate and a beautiful 
fancy cup to drink it from. 

Jayne shuddered without at first knowing 
why. Then she remembered—the cup re¬ 
minded her of Ninette’s. She could not eat 
after that, though she was compelled to 
quench her thirst with a glass of water which 
stood on the tray beside the chocolate. 

“I can never bear the sight of chocolate 
again,” she sobbed, as she buried her head 
in her pillow that night. “And yet, if they 
wanted to poison me they could poison the 
water. I could keep myself from taking 
the other things. But I can’t help drinking 
when I’m thirsty. ’ ’ 

She felt ill when she woke, and went all 
day without eating. At dinner that night 
there was again chocolate —and no water . 

Lepadou, parting from Niort, started for 
his hotel by a short-cut which led him 
through the ill-favored region of the rue des 
Grottes, and taking a wrong turning found 

[ 249 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


himself upon the river bank. Across the 
stream, soft in the gathering twilight, rose 
Villeneuve, the tower of Philippe le Bel and 
the twin battlements of the fort. The scene 
drew him, and he was soon crossing the great 
modern bridge which now performs the office 
abandoned by the dream-ordered structure 
of Benezet. He would, he decided, go and 
take dinner at a little inn named Le Prin- 
temps. It was a good bit of a walk, but that 
would give him an appetite. Also the way 
to Le Printemps led directly past Philippe 
le Bel, though of this he pretended to take 
no note. 

Arrived at the tower’s foot, however, he 
looked up. From the road there was noth¬ 
ing to be seen—aside from the great pile of 
masonry itself—but the steep bank, on top 
of which the tower stood, and several over¬ 
hanging cottages, apparently uninhabited 
and certainly unsafe. A weed-grown path 
climbed the bank at a steep angle, and the 
detective, yielding to a desire which he could 
not shake off, ascended it. 

As he approached, the tower seemed to 

[ 250 ] 


THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEE 

lean towards him as if about to fall—a trick 
of perspective, or rather of the human eye 
unaccustomed to regard objects from an 
angle so far from the horizontal. And when, 
looking directly upward, he saw something 
within the field of vision actually begin to 
move, to fall, he recoiled involuntarily. It 
was as if all that ancient stonework meant 
actually to tumble on his head. Yet it was 
only a handkerchief. 

Lepadou flung himself upon a heavy 
wooden door that masked the tower’s en¬ 
trance. To his surprise, it yielded upon its 
hinges without even a squeak, revealing a 
large circular chamber with a low-groined 
ceiling like the crypt of a church. In one of 
the great walls was the entrance to a stair¬ 
way. 

He mounted slowly, lighting his steps with 
a pocket torch. Following a perfect spiral, 
the stairway gave the impression of having 
been gnawed by some huge worm out of the 
solid rock. There were no windows, no orna¬ 
ments, nothing even to serve as a hand-hold 
—nothing anywhere but smooth, close-fitting 

[ 251 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


granite blocks. No wonder the tower had 
stood for centuries and needed no caretaker. 
It was built like the eternal hills. 

At the top, where he arrived breathless 
from the climb, there was no landing—only 
a wall built sheer up from the last step. In 
this wall was a door, and some other sort of 
aperture covered with a wooden blind. As 
the blind was hinged and fastened only with 
a simple catch, he tried this first and found 
himself looking through a horizontal slit 
into a dim room, within which moved the 
figure of a girl. 

‘ ‘ Jayne! ’ ’ he called softly. ‘ i Jayne Bon- 
coeur, can it really be you'?” 

She turned, then started back in terror. 

“Don’t be afraid,’” he begged. 

“Afraid? You’re trying to starve me, to 
poison me.” 

“No, no.” 

“Yes, you are. Take away your chocolate 
cups and give me some water.” 

“But, Jayne, if anyone is trying to harm 
you, it is somebody else. I’m one of the 
officers who are out hunting for you. And 

[ 252 ] 


THE TOWER OF PHILIPPE LE BEL 


just now, as I was passing, you dropped your 
handkerchief. That’s what led me here. 
Look!” 

She took the handkerchief, which he ex¬ 
tended through the opening, hut seemed only 
partially reassured. 

1 ‘ If you ’re a friend, ’ ’ she said , 1 1 come back 
and let me out.” 

“I’ll let you out now.” 

“You can’t. I’m locked in and the door 
is very thick.” 

“Very rotten, too,” pronounced Lepadou, 
after a hurried examination. ‘ 6 1 think I can 
kick it down. If not, I’ll go and get some¬ 
thing in the way of a crowbar.” 

“You must be very careful if you do,” 
said the girl, coming close to the opening. 
“There are three men here. I haven’t seen 
any of them for several hours, but they’re 
apt to be back any minute. And one of them 
isn’t a man, he’s a devil. He laughs and he 
has crooked arms.” 

Lepadou waited to hear no more, but lifted 
his boot-heel and brought it smartly down 

[253 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


upon what appeared to be the weakest spot 
in the door planking. 

At the same instant, the step beneath him 
seemed to turn over. It threw him headlong 
down the precipitous spiral of the stairs— 
headlong and into darkness, for he had 
dropped his torch. 


9 


[254] 


CHAPTER XVI 
Tardieu’s Party 

W HEN the journalists of Paris final¬ 
ly began to suspect that the where¬ 
abouts of Pierre Noyeau were 
unknown, they became unmanageable. Bon- 
coeur’s suicide, coming as the third of a 
series of already sufficiently beaux crimes 
had been bad enough, notwithstanding a let¬ 
ter found among the deceased’s papers and 
speaking vaguely of a “life-long remorse,” 
which put the nature of the deed beyond a 
doubt. And his will, dated years before and 
leaving nearly all his property to his younger 
daughter, merely increased the talk. It was 
but natural, therefore, that the disappear¬ 
ance of his intended son-in-law should 
arouse the press to a fury of excitement. 
The idea that he might be away playing 
detective on the trail of Jayne was scoffed 
at as an official invention designed to hide 

[ 255 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

incompetence. Public opinion demanded an 
arrest. 

Great was the surprise and indignation in 
police circles, therefore, when only the most 
perfunctory steps continued to be taken. At 
la Surete in particular, where the brigade 
special would ordinarily have been put in 
charge, astonishment reigned. For in so far 
as it could be ascertained, the only ones who 
were busying themselves with this extraor¬ 
dinary affair were Juge d’Instruction Tar- 
dieu, Commissaire Boussai, and a mere in - 
specteur du commissariat named Forgeron. 

A few suspected that Lepadou was still in 
favor, and that all hands were being stayed 
in order to give the famous sleuth a free field. 
But these few were so highly placed that 
their gossip never reached the rank and file. 

Suddenly all was changed. It began, some 
said, with the arrest of a street arab. At any 
rate a very ragged boy was seen passing 
under guard into the Chef de la Surete 9f s 
private office, though whether he was an act¬ 
ual prisoner or not remained conjectural. 
Certainly things began to move. 

[ 256 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


Even then it was not to the 'brigade special, 
or “homicide squad/' but to the brigade de 
la voie publique that orders were given— 
men whose ordinary business it was to patrol 
the streets in citizen’s clothes, ready to fol¬ 
low, a la flan (at hazard), any known crim¬ 
inals they might encounter. The brigadier 
of this squad, after an interview with his 
chief, reappeared in company with the mys¬ 
terious boy, but was gone again before a 
word could be said—taking the boy with him. 

A few hours afterwards two women were 
brought in—one a hag in a sort of gypsy get- 
up, the other much younger and somewhat 
too ostentatiously fine. Yet their names 
were entered upon no register, and what be¬ 
came of them not even the chief inspectors 
could say. 

Then word was openly given to the whole 
brigade to go out and look for Pierre Noy- 
eau. He was located almost immediately, 
locked in the cellar of an unused warehouse. 
His clothes were torn and dirty, and he had 
worked himself into a state bordering on 
frenzy in his vain efforts to get out. But if 

[ 257 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


lie had any statement to make he reserved it 
for ears more discreet than those of the men 
who rescued him and took him to their chief. 

This same day, Boussai, who had con¬ 
verted the Boncoeur house into a mouse-trap 
(a place under secret surveillance, arranged 
for the capture of all suspects who may enter 
it), received a special message from the juge 
d’instruction. 

“Kindly have all parties connected with 
the Boncoeur affair assembled in the room 
of the deceased Ninette at nine o’clock this 
evening . I think it would be a good idea to 
hold an enquete on the scene of the crime 

The commissaire, who had just returned 
from a few days’ leave, took the letter to 
Forgeron, whom he found smoking a lonely 
pipe in the lodge of the Boncoeur’s con¬ 
cierge. 

“You see one can’t turn his back on this 
affair even long enough to get a much-needed 
breath of air,” he observed with considerable 
irritation when the other had spelled the 
message out carefully to the last line. “Be 
prepared to hear Tardieu express both sur- 

[ 258 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


prise and indignation if we haven’t at least 
one murderer ready for him. ’ ’ 

Forgeron murmured an assent, and hur¬ 
ried to make a round of the house for the 
purpose of informing its three remaining 
inhabitants that their presence would be re¬ 
quired at this new inquiry. 

Charlotte received the news indifferently; 
Madame Boncoeur with a wordless stare. 
Only Mrs. Cuit presumed to demand an ex¬ 
planation. But even she lacked the belliger¬ 
ency which she would once have shown under 
the circumstances, and Forgeron answered 
mechanically: 

“It’s just a fool order—nothing to cry 
about.” 

“Isn’t it true, then, that M’sieu Noyeau 
has been found dead, and that we ’re all to be 
tried for his murder?” 

“Of course not. Noyeau is away some- 
wheres trying to locate Jayne. How do you 
hear such ridiculous stories?” 

He sought solitude in Jayne’s room, where 
he sat for a long time gazing out absently 
through the closed shutters. It was thus 

[ 259 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


that he happened to see a boy stopped and 
quietly led away by an apparently private 
citizen while attempting to cross the quai. 

“That was a pinch,” muttered the in¬ 
spector, as something professional in the 
hold of the citizen upon the urchin’s sleeve 
caught his eye. “The fellow is a flic, and I 
think I know the boy, too. He ain’t the one 
we used to see hangin’ around here. I’ve 
heard the other gamins call him Frangois.” 

“I suppose you haven’t been able to get 
anything further out of Madame Boncoeur 
or the servants?” said Boussai, putting in 
his head at the door. 

“No, m y sieu le commissaire, I-” 

“Try once more, if nothing else turns up. 
We must arrest somebody or the judge will 
be blaming us.” 

The inspector acknowledged the likelihood 
of this, and was back in the lodge when—for 
the first time in weeks—a strange voice de¬ 
manded entrance. To pull the cord which 
unlocked the gate was the work of an instant. 

“One would think it was the middle of the 
night,” complained the stranger. “What’s 

[ 260 ] 




TARDIEU’S PARTY 


the idea of keeping your court-yard closed 
in the afternoon ?” 

Forgeron waited until a sharp click told 
him that the gate had relocked itself auto¬ 
matically. Then he looked out of his wicket 
at the well-dressed young man who con¬ 
fronted him. 

“Where do you come from if you don’t 
know that?” he demanded. 

“You may well ask where I come from. 
But I want to see Madame Boncoeur.” 

“Your name, please.” 

“My name is Benson, and-” 

Forgeron stepped out into the court. 

“I arrest you in the name of the law,” he 
said, snapping a pair of handcuffs adroitly 
about the visitor’s wrists. 

“You’ve done some good work, at last,” 
admitted Boussai, when he arrived that eve¬ 
ning and had viewed the prisoner. “Has he 

t 

made a statement ?” 

“Not a word since I put the menottes on 
him. But your orders were-” 

“ It’s all right, Forgeron. You have made 

[ 261 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


no mistake. And let the judge come now, if 
he wants to.” 

When the judge finally put in an appear¬ 
ance, however, there was that in his manner 
which seemed to indicate that all human 
activities, even including the arrest of stray 
gentlemen demanding admittance to mouse¬ 
traps, were things too absurd and trivial to 
be taken seriously. Tardieu had often been 
accused of being too much of a philosopher 
and a humorist. He was at his worst. He 
wore a flower in his button-hole. 

4 ‘ More chairs! More chairs! ” he bustled, 
making his way to Ninette’s room. “Never 
mind the prisoner. No doubt he feels quite 
bad enough for the present, and it will be 
easy to make him feel worse later on. But 
good heavens, my dear confreres! I’m ex¬ 
pecting quite a party to-night. You wouldn’t 
have my guests kept standing, would you? 
Some of them are ladies.” 

Moving with the stiffness of automatons, 
Boussai and Forgeron provided the required 
furniture. The magistrate’s flippancy was 
beginning to look like a cloak. He was, in 

[ 262 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


fact, so ill at ease that when his own greffier 
entered with a lot of documents and writing 
materials, he was unable to avoid a start. 

“I wonder what’s in the wind?” Boussai 
went so far as to whisper to his subordinate. 
“I never saw him so bad as this.” 

Forgeron shook his head, and went about 
his duties as if the judge’s lapse from the 
decorum of criminal procedure had thrown 
him into a trance. Without a word he helped 
Madame Boncoeur, Charlotte and Mrs. Cuit 
to their places, at the same time permitting 
the prisoner to slip behind a screen in the 
corner—less out of consideration than be¬ 
cause his attention had suddenly become 
fixed on Madame Boncoeur. She looked 
more sallow, more like a female Buddha than 
ever, and had covered her lap with a steamer 
rug, as if the season were winter. She was 
even hiding her hands. What could ail her ? 
A chill ? 

When Lepadou fell through the darkness 
of the tower, it was not, as he feared for sev¬ 
eral instants, either to break his neck or to 
land in the hands of the enemy. The top 

[ 263 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


step had been cleverly fixed on a pivot, so 
that when he put his weight on its outer edge 
it had turned beneath him. But all that he 
suffered was a few severe bruises. An hour 
later, he and Jayne were at the station, and 
the tower under secret observation by the 
Avignon police. 

At Paris, his first act was to seek out 
Judge Tardieu and demand another look at 
the famous snap-shot. 

“Only thirteen pieces!” he exclaimed as 
he bent over it. “I might have known.’’ 

Getting in touch with Le Squelette, he was 
able to round out his information still fur¬ 
ther—for the boy had been far from idle— 
and to set on foot those official activities al¬ 
ready noted. And now he entered the room 
where the judge’s little party was beginning 
to assemble, apparently totally unaware of 
the exclamations which greeted his appear¬ 
ance. 

After him came Jayne; then a gypsy with 
her head wrapped in a shawl; then a woman 
closely veiled. 

“I believe we are ready to begin,” said the 

[ 264 ] 



TARDIEU’S PARTY 


juge d’instruction, speaking with evident 
agitation from his seat by the greffier behind 
a table. 

“Your Honor, ” Lepadou responded, 
“there is one important witness whom I’ve 
been unable to locate. He was supposed to 
be among those out looking for Jayne Bon- 
coeur, but I-” 

‘ ‘ If you had seen fit to take me into your 
confidence instead of pretending to be in dis¬ 
grace,” the commissaire interrupted. “I 
think I could have saved you trouble.” 

Boussai moved aside the screen, and con¬ 
tinued : 

“Here, m’sieu le juge, is the missing wit¬ 
ness—by name, Laurent Bienson, Comte de 
Montfayat, alias Lawrence Benson. He has 
been sought for a long time, but to-day was 
caught while attempting to communicate 
with Madame Boncoeur. And I now charge 
him with the murder of Ninette Amelle, com¬ 
monly called Boncoeur, and with the sub¬ 
sequent abduction of Jayne Boncoeur, her 
reputed sister.” 

Jayne broke into sobs and hid her face in 

[ 265 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


her hands, while for the first time there were 
signs of life from the moveless invalid in her 
wheeled chair. Lepadou showed both sur¬ 
prise and chagrin. 

“If I had dreamed of this,” he began. 

But the judge cut him short. 

“He’s merely caught your man for you— 
no great harm done. ’ ’ 

“I would like to say,” put in the prisoner, 
opening his mouth at last, 6 i that I called on 
Madame Boncoeur only to see if she hadn’t 
possibly some private information concern¬ 
ing her missing daughter, who—thank God 
—is here at last. I’d been conducting some 
unsuccessful investigations of my own, and 
could no longer endure the suspense. My 
visit here should implicate nobody but my¬ 
self.” 

“If I were you I’d save my statements till 
later,” suggested Tardieu. “I’ve agreed to 
conduct this investigation in the quaint 
American manner, which gives the defend¬ 
ant a chance to hear what is said against him 
before he need reply. Proceed, m’sieu le 
commissaire.” 

[ 266 ] 


t 



TARDIEU’S PARTY 


“I shall be brief/’ promised Boussal 
“ Jayne Boncoeur, under what circum¬ 
stances did you leave Paris?” 

Falteringly, the girl confessed to her ap¬ 
pointment with the accused, explained how 
she had met a strange man who promised to 
take her to him, and briefly described her 
subsequent forced flight in the limousine and 
the roadside hold-up. 

“Did you see anybody in the first ma¬ 
chine whom you recognized?” 

“I thought I did.” 

“Whom did you see?” 

“Tell the truth,” prompted Lepadou, as 
the witness hesitated. 

“I thought it was M’sieu Benson. But he 
never came near me.” 

“And it was Benson who surrendered in 
the hold-up?” 

6 i It looked like him. ’ ’ 

“I ask you to swear that you knew it was 
he.” 

“I won’t. It was a dark night, and I—it 
may have been-” 

“I see why you are letting me conduct this 

[ 267 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


examination, m’sieu le juge. It is a very 
painful case, and nobody can blame tbe 
young lady for trying to shield the man who 
was her lover. But I want to ask her if she 
didn’t present her sister with a box of mar- 
rons glaces the night before she died?” 

“Yes,” Jayne admitted, after a glance at 
Lepadou. 

“And you removed them from your sis¬ 
ter’s room the next morning when you 
thought nobody was looking?” 

“Who—who saw me? You hadn’t come 
yet. ’ ’ 

“Never mind. You did it. Were any of 
them missing?” 

“A few—but there was no poison in the 
marrons. ’ ’ 

“ How do you know ? ’ ’ 

“I ate what was left.” 

Boussai shook his head. 

“You didn’t eat the originals, my poor 
child, for I took them while you were out 
warning your lover to keep away from the 
house. What you ate were harmless substi- 

[ 268 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


tutes. The originals are here, and contain 
enough cyanide to kill an army.” 

There was an immense sensation as he 
produced a box, laid it on the judge’s table, 
and continued: 

“Vraiment, in this affair of Ninette Bon- 
coeur we find ourselves face to face with the 
bizarre. Here was a young girl, beautiful, 
rich, pampered by her parents, engaged to 
marry her father’s contremaitre and openly 
in love with him. She appeared to have 
every chance of happiness. 

“But appearances are not to be trusted, 
and every one of these seeming facts was a 
lie. She was a woman, not a girl. She did 
not belong even distantly to the family which 
posed her as its eldest daughter. Her name 
was not mentioned in her supposed father’s 
will. The indulgences with which her pre¬ 
tended mother surrounded her, instead of 
being prompted by foolish love, were the re¬ 
sult of a jealous hatred of astounding pro¬ 
portions and intended to lead to her ruin.” 

The commissaire proceeded to recount all 
the circumstances which Lepadou, believing 

[ 269 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


himself to be a discoverer, had wormed out 
of the records—Ninette’s desertion by L’Al- 
ouette; her quasi-adoption by the singer’s 
wardrobe-woman; L ’ Alouette’s marriage to 
the Count de Montfayat; the count’s death, 
which left the widow in command of his for¬ 
tune; and finally the girl’s visit to her real 
mother in Avignon. 

“The plan,” he continued, “was to ruin 
Ninette in the eyes of the countess. For who 
was so likely to have become Puritanical as 
an old Bohemian, a parvenue in the ranks of 
the aristocracy? In no other way can be 
understood the utter neglect of the most or¬ 
dinary moral precautions in Ninette’s bring¬ 
ing up. Jayne was guarded almost like a 
prisoner to protect her from the contamina¬ 
tion of this regime. The other was fairly 
shoved along the primrose path. 

“But Pierre Noyeau insisted on prefer¬ 
ring the supposed eldest daughter, and Ma¬ 
dame Boncoeur was too fond of him to offer 
serious opposition. If Ninette could be made 
to disgrace herself, the match could be 
broken off, and Jayne would then not only 

[ 270 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 

inherit both fortunes, but get the husband 
as well. ’ ’ 

“Are you going to prefer charges against 
Madame Boncoeur?” put in the judge. 

“I charge her with nothing excepting 
blind jealousy in favor of her own offspring 
and failure to carry out the spirit as well as 
the letter of an arrangement. Nor do I wish 
to insinuate that Jayne, Ninette, or even 
Boncoeur were anything but innocent tools 
in her hands. Boncoeur knew what he was 
doing, but he showed his repentance by hang¬ 
ing himself/ ’ 

“Would you mind telling me how you dis¬ 
covered these things?” demanded Lepadou, 
“and just how and why you claim that Ben¬ 
son tried to poison Ninette—the betrothed of 
another man?” 

“He did not try to poison her,” Boussai 
quietly corrected. “He succeeded—and by 
the simple expedient of handing her sister a 
box of sweetmeats and asking to have them 
delivered. As to how I discovered the facts, 
I learned some of them by having a boy 
named Francois follow a boy called Le 

[ 271 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Squelette, and then shadowing Le Squel- 
ette’s master. The next time you wish to 
work on a case secretly, my dear Lepadou, 
you should change your deputies as well as 
your features—though I suppose Le Squel¬ 
ette is really too clever to be laid aside. He 
also made a substitution of the marrons, 
though unfortunately too late to be of 
service. ” 

At this point, the rage and mortification 
apparent in Lepadou’s face became painful 
to see. A momentary silence was broken 
only by the sobbing of Jayne and a futile 
attempt on the part of Benson to communi¬ 
cate with her across the barrier interposed 
by the huge bulk of Forgeron. And then 
Boussai resumed his recital, with nothing 
either in his voice or in the expressions of 
his hearers which gave any hint of the 
strange events which the evening was still to 
bring forth. 

“Let me remind you,” he went on, ad¬ 
dressing the judge, “that Benson is the dis¬ 
inherited son of the late count, by the count’s 
first wife. This is the root of the whole mat- 

[272 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 

ter. For, on hearing of his father’s death, 
he returned from America, where he had 
been living, and attempted to win the good 
will of the widowed countess, his step¬ 
mother. Here he found a barrier—this 
natural daughter, to whom she intended to 
leave the fortune. 

“His moral claim seems not to have been 
altogether ignored, and there is evidence to 
show that on Ninette’s visit to Avignon the 
countess attempted to make a marriage be¬ 
tween the two claimants to the estate. Nin¬ 
ette, happy in other plans—even, let us ad¬ 
mit, irrevocably committed to other plans— 
refused to agree to it, and hurried back to 
Paris. Benson followed her, fell in with her 
sister, and sent her the poisoned candy so 
that she might no longer stand in his way.” 

“You also accuse him of Jayne’s abduc¬ 
tion,” suggested the judge. 

Boussai inclined his head. 

“I am coming to that, and also to the part 
he must have played in the disappearance of 
Pierre Noyeau. But first I want to call at¬ 
tention to the fact that Ninette was no sooner 

[273 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


dead than Benson began to search among the 
public records for the Boncoeur antecedents. 
He knew that Ninette was illegitimate, and 
possibly he wanted to be certain in regard to 
Jayne. For Jayne had conceived a girlish 
passion for him, and he meant to take ad¬ 
vantage of it.” 

“Why didn’t he plan simply to marry 
her?” 

“Because, m’sieu le juge, here again he 
couldn’t win the lady’s consent. Every day 
her infatuation seemed to wane. She was 
gradually inclining, I think, towards Pierre 
Noyeau, whose merits could not fail to im¬ 
press her now that the removal of Ninette 
had made him a possible husband. Some¬ 
thing spectacular and romantic was neces¬ 
sary. Benson decided on an abduction. 

“It is my opinion that he intended it at 
first to be an ordinary abduction. Then he 
saw how much safer it would be if he won 
her heart. So he changed his mind at the 
last minute, and went through the farce of 
having his hirelings hold him up. In due 
time I shall produce a witness to the scene. 

[ 274 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


What was his plan now ? I can only guess. 
But you will notice that Jayne Boncoeur has 
testified that he never came near her. That 
would seem as if he were giving himself a 
chance to pretend that he was never there, 
and afterwards, when her reputation had 
been ruined and her spirit thoroughly 
broken, to appear before her suddenly as 
a successful amateur detective, a magnani¬ 
mous hero, ready to marry her in spite of all. 

“But M’sieu Lepadou seems to have fore¬ 
stalled him in this. No doubt he can give 
you further details.” 

“Maybe I can,” snapped Lepadou, before 
anyone else could get in a word. “Will 
somebody kindly call Pierre Noyeau in from 
the hall?” 

A uniformed guardian de le paix, who had 
been leaning nonchalantly against the outer 
door, hastened to obey the detective’s order. 
The woman by the gypsy’s side lifted her 
veil, revealing a face of insipid if somewhat 
outworn prettiness marred by the excessive 
use of rouge. Forgeron moved restlessly in 
his chair. He had a feeling that something 

[275 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


long suspended in the air—something in the 
nature of a sword held by a hair—were about 
to fall. 

At the same time, an all-seeing eye, could 
it have looked into the room, would have ob¬ 
served a hand stealing into a side pocket 
and laying hold of the grip of an automatic 
pistol. 

“The commissaire has made it unneces¬ 
sary for me to say much, ’ ’ Lepadou went on. 
“But I want to ask M’sieu Noyeau where he 
has spent the last few days?’ 

“I was lured into an unused building by a 
message purporting to come from an old 
friend,” ISToyeau responded. “There I was 
set upon by a band of toughs—some of them 
very young ones. They locked me in a cellar 
and kept me on scant rations till I was res¬ 
cued by the police. ’’ 

The questioner, unable to hide a smile, 
pointed to the unveiled woman. 

“Is this the friend?” 

“Yes, sir. And if I have given her any 
reason to complain of me —mon Dieu, but 
she has made the most of it. ’ ’ 

[ 276 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


‘ ‘ True. I took her for a vindictive person 
when I first met her—in the Bois de Bou¬ 
logne. But you must give my over-zealous 
ragamuffin—who entered into the conspiracy 
to lay you by the heels—also the credit for 
piloting the rescue party. Have you ever 
seen the accused before—the gentleman sit¬ 
ting by the screen?’’ 

“Once. Shortly after Ninette’s funeral I 
was out walking with Jayne, and he ap¬ 
proached us—impertinently, I thought. ’ ’ 

‘ 1 Seemed to be interested in her ?” 

“He did.” 

Two gamins were brought in. 

“Le Squelette,” said the detective, “do 
you know this boy, who calls himself Fran- 
gois?” 

“ I ’ll say I do, boss. ’ ’ 

“Well, it’s a pity you didn’t get ac¬ 
quainted with him sooner. And what do you 
say to the idea that the marrons you took 
from Jayne’s room were some that had al¬ 
ready been substituted for the originals?” 

“Aw, how could dat be? Didn’t de ones 
I took have L ’Alouette’s old play-bill stick- 

[ 277 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


in’ to ’em? An’ you’ve just been tellin’ me 
yerself dat de bill was Ninette’s an’ given 
’er by ’er mother. ’ ’ 

“True enough. There's a mystery here 
somewhere. I’ll ask the Countess of Mont- 
fayat if she did give the play-bill to her 
daughter.” 

The gypsy threw aside her threadbare 
shawl and stood up—a fine old woman, ele¬ 
gantly, even gorgeously dressed, and show¬ 
ing no gypsy trait whatever. 

“Good evening to you, Judge Tardieu,” 
she said, with a courtesy which could have 
been learned nowhere but on the stage. “I 
see you’ve been warned to expect me. Now 
don’t begin to take on. Bygones are by¬ 
gones, and I don’t want to be flustered before 
I answer this young man’s question. I 
did give my Ninette the old program you 
showed me, M’sieu Lepadou. She wanted a 
souvenir of her mother, only recently having 
learned who her mother was, poor dear! 

“I wanted her to marry my scapegrace 
stepson, just as the other gentleman has said. 
They were not related—I don’t care who 

[ 278 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


knows it now. And it seemed a pity to let 
tlie money go out of the family. But Ninette 
was in love with her fiance—thanks to no 
doings of mine, either. I never wanted that 
match. My! How often I Ve come prowling 
around here dressed up as an old apple wom¬ 
an, trying to find out if she was happy. 
That ’s how much of a Puritan I was. It was 
too late to make myself known, or at least I 
thought so. I didn’t believe then that Nin¬ 
ette would forgive me if she knew. And Le 
Gla^on over there, who put the idea into my 
head, wouldn’t let me see her. She wanted 
Noyeau to feather his nest, that’s my opin¬ 
ion, and get Ninette out of the way of her 
Jayne. 

“And now my girl is dead, and my scape¬ 
grace is accused of murdering her. I wish 
I’d never lived to see this day, though it is 
good, judge, to be able to have a look at old 
friends such as you again. ” 

L’Alouette sat down, half crying, half 
smiling. Her voice, which during the excite¬ 
ment of her narrative had recovered some of 

[279 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


the thrilling smoothness which art had once 
given it, broke on the last word. 

During the hush which followed, Lepadou 
paced once or twice up and down the room, 
lost in thought, with his hands behind him. 
As he did so he felt himself shiver, as if he 
had encountered a draught of cold air. He 
could have sworn that he had passed in front 
of something horrible, which he perceived 
through some part of his being more sensi¬ 
tive than his mind. And yet, glancing cov¬ 
ertly around the circle, he could see nothing 
amiss. Cursing himself inwardly for a fool, 
he gave an order. 

“Bring in the Apaches .’ 1 

Four figures entered, and so true had been 
the detective’s instinct that—save for the 
care with which it was concealed—he and the 
whole company might have seen a pistol- 
barrel slowly lifted till it pointed straight as 
the finger of death towards its unsuspected 
and unsuspecting mark. 

“La Haquenee, Le Tapageur, Le Boque- 
tin, Le Boucher,” said Lepadou, introducing 
the new witnesses to the judge, “caught by 

[ 280 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 


the Avignon police as they were returning to 
their quarters in the tower of Philippe le 
Bel after a most untimely little spree. No 
doubt you are acquainted with them, Your 
Honour, though Le Tapageur has consented, 
just to please me, to appear in a rather un¬ 
characteristic make-up. ” 

‘ 6 That is he! ’ ’ cried Jayne. “ It is the very 
man I took for M’sieu Benson in the auto¬ 
mobile. And the pale one next him—La 
Haquenee—is the one who rode with me.” 

“Very good. I thought I would surprise 
you. But Porgeron, what is the trouble with 
you?” 

‘ ‘ I—it’s nothing. I m seein ’ things, that ’s 
all. ’ ? 

“Seeing things 

“I—I was took dizzy for a minute there. 
It made my head swim. ’ ’ 

Lepadou regarded the inspector doubt¬ 
fully, but ended by going on with the case. 

“The commissaire has in many particu¬ 
lars merely confirmed what I already knew 
or suspected. Yet everybody must have no¬ 
ticed how the picture of the crime as formed 

[ 281 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


in his own mind seemed to be undergoing a 
strange sort of alteration with each witness 
that I have called—how its details, instead 
of remaining fixed or dropping out of the 
pattern, were slowly arranging themselves 
into a different pattern. 

“For instance, while it is true that Jayne 
saw her lover, as she supposed, in the auto¬ 
mobile, it seems no longer true that he was 
there. Someone undoubtedly intended to 
rescue the girl from pretended bandits, and 
would have done so if he had had the chance, 
only M’sieu Boussai has made a mistake as 
to that person’s identity. And these mar- 
rons on the table here are unquestionably 
full of cyanide—but you are beginning to 
doubt if they are the originals. In fact, as I 
shall show presently, both the commissaire 
and Le Squelette were decived. Neither got 
hold of the originals, which were, however, 
quite harmless, as Ninette was not poisoned 
by marrons at all. 

‘ ‘ There was a man, too, who searched the 
public records. But he did not discover that 
Ninette was the daughter of the Countess of 

[ 282 ] 



TARDIEU’S PARTY 


Montfayat. He merely found out that she 
was not a Boncoeur. This is immensely im¬ 
portant, and until I thought of it as a possi¬ 
bility I was entirely at a loss as to the motive 
for the crime. But before explaining fur¬ 
ther I wish to go back. 

“When I first undertook this case, I be¬ 
lieved that I was on track of one of the most 
ingenious minds of the age—of a criminal 
who is a sort of superstition with me rather 
than a proved fact—a man, or perhaps only 
an imagined man, whom I have nicknamed 
The Squid, because it sometimes seems as if 
his tentacles reached everywhere. 

61 Then I discovered that the pieces of the 
cup found by Ninette’s bedside were too 
numerous by one, according to an idea I had 
formed of The Squid’s method. I decided 
to give up the investigation and watch for 
signs of my party’s activity in some other 
direction. But almost immediately a bullet 
flying out of nowhere nearly laid me low. 
This looked like my man again, and I de¬ 
cided to go on. 

“I had become fanciful by this time, and 

[283 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


several little incidents encouraged me in the 
belief that I was on the long-sought trail. It 
was not till after I had arrived in Avignon 
that I was again assailed by a serious doubt. 
One of the characteristics of The Squid, as 
he existed in my imagination, was that he 
never made a mistake. On going to the res¬ 
cue of Jayne I suffered from an ingeniously 
contrived ‘ accident , 1 and was rendered mo¬ 
mentarily helpless. But I wasn’t set upon 
and killed. This looked like a mistake. It 
couldn’t, I thought, be The Squid after all. 

“But I had gone too far with the case to 
drop it, and so came back to Paris, where I 
took pains to study a photograph taken of 
this very room immediately after the mur¬ 
der was discovered. I had examined the 
picture before, but carelessly, supposing 
that it would agree with the inventory. This 
time I looked closer and found that it did 
not agree. It showed the cup incomplete. 
There had been a piece missing when the 
photograph was taken, though previously, at 
the time of the inventory, and later, when the 
cup was finally sent to the chemist, every 

[ 284 ] 



TARDIEU’S PARTY 

piece was there. My belief in The Squid 
theory revived. ’ ’ 

“Does it exist still ?” asked Boussai. 

Lepadou responded in the negative. 

“In spite of what I may describe as the 
persistence of certain shivers of premoni¬ 
tion, which I have occasionally been so weak 
as to take for evidence of that monster’s 
nearness, I must confess that again my 
theory is on the wane. For I have discov¬ 
ered other mistakes—one quite fatal. My 
arch-criminal could never have been guilty 
of that. So I’m afraid we have to do here 
with a mere imitator, with someone who has 
heard, perhaps, of the real Squid’s methods 
and attempted to duplicate them. 

“One of these mistakes was the hoax of 
the poisoned candy. Jayne receives the box 
from Benson—a box of quite innocuous 
marrons, which reached Ninette by the 
merest accident. The commissaire finds 
them in Jayne’s room while Jayne is out— 
that is, he thinks he finds them. In reality 
our imitation master-criminal has already 
tried to take advantage of the accident by 

[ 285 ] 




THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


planting substituted, poisoned sweets for 
the purpose of having them found. The 
commissaire makes another substitution, 
and waits for developments. At midnight, 
Le Squelette comes along, and, at the risk of 
being taken for a burglar, goes through the 
performance once more. It is comic, this 
same expedient repeated over and over 
again. But nobody changed the box, and 
LAJouette’s play-bill stuck to the original 
lid till Le Squelette arrived, when it seems 
to have let go its hold on purpose to deceive 
us with the idea that he has the very marrons 
he is looking for. 

“The Squid would never have taken such 
clumsy advantage of an accident. He would 
never have been so foolish as to suppose that 
I would believe in murder by poisoned candy 
given to the wrong person and reaching the 
right one by sheer hazard, especially when 
there existed evidence that Ninette was 
killed by quite other means. But the great¬ 
est mistake of all was this—the man who 
searched the records left irrefutable indica¬ 
tions of his identity behind him. 

[ 286 ] 



TARDIEU’S PARTY 


“Was this man Benson? In Avignon I 
was continually coming upon inexplicable 
enigmas because I was attempting to fit 
Benson to the crime. It is the same here. 
What could Benson have learned from the 
records? Probably nothing which he did 
not know already from the countess, his 
stepmother. If he had searched them, what 
would he have found out? Everything — 
that Ninette was the child of the count¬ 
ess, that Jayne was sole heiress of the Bon- 
coeurs. In other words, that either girl was 
a good match. No motive for murder here. 

“The commissaire supposes that the 
search took place after Ninette’s death, 
and that Benson’s motive was to make cer¬ 
tain that Jayne was legitimate. This is very 
thin. Legitimate or not, Boncoeur had 
nobody else, then, to leave his money to. 

“But suppose it was not Benson? Say 
it was somebody who did not know that 
L’Alouette’s maiden name was Amelle or 
that she married the count. He would have 
found nothing in the records to enlighten 
him and would have jumped to the conclu- 

[ 287 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


sion that Ninette, not being recorded as a 
Boncoeur, was a nameless waif. Without 
the name of Amelle he would have found no 
reference to her at all; and even with it he 
could not have traced any connection be¬ 
tween the girl and the Montfayat fortune, 
for the simple reason that the Montfayat 
marriage is not recorded in Paris. 

“Let us say further that this took place 

many months ago, and that the searcher was 

even then bound to the supposed waif. 

There immediately arises a motive for his 

* 

wanting to get rid of her. 

“And he was bound, Your Honor. He 
was the openly accepted suitor for her hand. 
Not content with that, he had taken scan¬ 
dalous means to make sure that the engage¬ 
ment should not be broken off even if her 
father, never enthusiastic in regard to it, 
should become positively hostile. 

“What sent him suddenly to searching 
records ? Perhaps it was some story which 
had reached his ears. Perhaps he had man¬ 
aged to get a look at Boncoeur’s will, so 
strangely in favor of the younger daughter. 

[ 288 ] 


TARDIETI’S PARTY 

And having found out half of the truth he 
makes an appointment with his betrothed 
to meet him at St. Cloud. 

“It was not the first time. But this time 
he is careful to keep away from the ren¬ 
dezvous, and to show himself elsewhere. 
Ninette loses the last boat home while wait¬ 
ing for him, and is away all night. The 
incident, though not her name, gets into 
the newspapers and she preserves one of the 
clippings. 

“Do you see the cold-blooded ruthlessness 
of the scheme ? She could not openly charge 
him with having made the appointment 
without exposing the fact that her relations 
with her fiance were no longer above criti¬ 
cism. So she said nothing, hoping that if 
she did not anger him a speedy marriage 
would hide all her indiscretions. But she 
could not explain her absence to her parents. 
Here was a flaw in her reputation—and he 
meant to use it as a loop-hole. 

“But for a time he must have contented 
himself with finding pretexts for the post¬ 
ponement of the wedding. Then all at once 

[ 289 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


lie seems to have become eager for it. Nin¬ 
ette was notoriously happy during the last 
few weeks of her life. When the commis - 
saire —for a blind, no doubt—announced his 
belief in the suicide theory—the first objec¬ 
tion to it was this recent happiness of 
the deceased. The lover had abandoned the 
notion of simply repudiating his victim, and 
chosen a worse one. Why? 

“I think it probable that a published 
account of The Squid’s crimes in America— 
a hint of that method of which I will have 
more to say later—had come under his eyes. 
Here, he reasoned, was a simple and safe 
technic for taking human life. There was 
danger in repudiation. The girl, forced to 
tell her story, might be believed. Unexpected 
witnesses might turn up to corroborate it. 
And he had just the sort of shrewdness which 
thinks it can plan a murder which will not 
out. 

“But, unfortunately for him, he made his 
trail plain from the start. He used a foun¬ 
tain pen in taking notes from the records, 
and got ink on his fingers. Look at this.” 

[ 290 ] 


TARDIEU’S PARTY 

Lepadou lifted a document from the 
judge’s table, and pointed to an ink-smudge 
in the corner. 

“This is his thumb-print. It will be his 
death-warrant. Pierre Noyeau, I challenge 
you to put your own thumb-” 

But the detective got no further. The 
lights of the chamber went out. There was 
a crashing pistol shot. 


[ 291 ] 



CHAPTER XVII 
The Trail of The Sqijid 



XTEACT from a letter written toy 
“Ferret” McClue to Ms assistant, 
Clara Hope, in New York: 


I shall never overrate an opponent again. 
It’s as bad as the other way around. For, 
of course, you see how this is going to end. 
No doubt that school-teacher brain of yours 
has even divined that I am no smarter when 
I disguise myself as a Frenchman and call 
myself Lepadou than when I stay at home 
and try—to get you to hurry up our wedding 
day, for example. The fact is, it doesn’t 
take a person incapable of making mistakes 
to get the better of me, and I was wrong in 
supposing it did. 

But who knows, after all, if The Squid 
actually made any mistakes'? I’ll get him 
now, but really I wouldn’t be surprised if it 

[292 ] 


THE TRAIL OP THE SQUID 

turned out that he’s merely been more subtle 
than I, and that what I’m taking for slips 
proved eventually to have been strokes of 
genius in disguise. Even that flaw in his 
infernal instrument of death—the necessity 
of removing one of the pieces, at least long 
enough to clean it—may only mean that he 
likes the thrill of being the hunted as well 
as the hunter. 

The thumb-mark, observe, was not The 
Squid’s fault—that happened before he had 
taken a hand, and his allowing his tool to go 
on believing in a half truth was a wonderful 
piece of villainy, I think. As for my escape 
in the tower, who knows that the scoundrel 
wants me dead, or that thus far I’ve been 
doing anything more than furnish him with 
a part of his mental excitement? Invent¬ 
ing a witness, so as to hide his own guilty 
knowledge of the hold-up, was clever, too, as 
it gave him time, and a witness could easily 
have been arranged for if the game had 
lasted. His worst play, if he did trip, was 
in trying to fool me with those poisoned 
marrons—that, or failing to discover that 

[293 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


Jayne was ready to elope, and so allowing 
himself to launch the absurd theory that 
Benson meant to abduct her. 

And on my side, didn’t I fail to follow up 
the clue furnished by the extraordinary 
taste shown in Ninette’s room? I felt it 
from the first, and should have known that 
it meant an artistic heredity. 

Of course, when I found Jayne under 
restraint in the tower, I knew at once that 
Benson wasn’t the culprit. He had a motive 
for eloping with her and for wanting to 
make her his wife. But one doesn’t cage a 
willing prisoner. And when she mentioned 
that a man w T ith crooked arms had attempted 
to serve her with chocolate in a fancy cup, 
I knew that the real Squid had at last 
appeared upon the scene. Neither Benson 
nor Noyeau had any reason for wanting to 
kill the girl. But instead of seeing that it 
was the real Squid throughout, I remained 
hipped by the fourteen pieces in Forgeron’s 
inventory, and adopted the ridiculous notion 
that Marie had thrust himself into the plot, 
uninvited and unknown, only after Jayne’s 

[ 294 ] 


THE TRAIL OF THE SQUID 

trip to Avignon had put her in his power. 
Notwithstanding the lack of watchers and 
my own escape on the stairs, I couldn’t get 
it into my head that he could at least seem 
to be stupid and loved to play with us like a 
cat with a mouse. 

It required a lot of false reasoning to 
arrive at the conclusion that Ninette was 
murdered and Jayne abducted by an imita¬ 
tion Squid, but I achieved that marvel of 
logic. And as Noveau clearly had a motive 
for taking J ayne, whether by fair means or 
foul, I promptly cast him for the imitator’s 
part. Not even when I studied the snap¬ 
shot and found that it didn’t agree with the 
inventory did it begin to dawn on me that 
there was no imitator, but merely a tool, and 
that in the end the master had simply over¬ 
reached and supplanted his pupil. There is 
some mystery about that photograph yet. 
I can’t help feeling that it was taken before 
its intended time—by accident, j>erhaps. 

But l y m going to get my man, no matter 
if he turns out to be as incapable of error as 
the multiplication table. Should the office 

[ 295 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


get a little lonesome and no problems come 
in sufficiently intricate to keep you cheerful, 
just you focus upon that. For it means, 
I hope, that I’ll soon be home with a big 
feather in my cap. And now for the rest of 
the story, without which, I am afraid, the 
foregoing is anything but crystal clear. 

You can imagine the confusion when total 
darkness and the roar which a shot makes 
in a confined room both struck our senses at 
the same time. We simply fought our way 
to the electric switch, upsetting furniture, 
and taking everybody we touched for an 
assassin. And when the switch was found, 
of course it wouldn’t work. Candles had to 
be brought in. I think it was the maid, 
Charlotte, who first had the sense to see that. 
Anyway it was she who went and got them— 
after I, happening to catch her at the door, 
had made a sufficient fuss about her going 
out. 

With light came quiet—a sudden and 
quite dreadful quiet. There sat—whom do 
you suppose? Pierre Noyeau, of course, in 
his chair just where he had been, but stone 

[ 296 ] 


THE TRAIL OP THE SQUID 

dead now and shot through the heart. For 
an instant I didn’t know what it meant. 

“It’s my fault,” Forgeron began to shout. 
“I saw the crooked arm, and wouldn’t be¬ 
lieve my eyes.” 

This didn’t help matters, for it sounded as 
if the big fellow, whom I’d caught in sus¬ 
picious situations before, was trying to feign 
insanity. 

“Let nobody go out, we must search for 
that pistol,” cried the judge, showing more 
energy than I would have expected of him 
in a pinch. And almost immediately we 
heard the answer, “Here it is,” coming from 
the guardian de la paix, the only cop among 
us who wore a uniform. He had gone 
right to Le Glagon, if you please, and was 
trying to get possession of a very ugly little 
pistol that she’d been hiding under the rug 

that covered her lap. 

But her fingers seemed glued to the butt, 
and when we finally succeeded in prying 
them loose it was to find that the barrel was 
clean and cold, and every chamber still 
loaded. I discovered afterwards that For- 

[297 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


geron had learned some damning things 
abont her, and I fancy she came prepared 
to follow her husband if any of this evidence 
came out. But she didn’t say a word, and 
it was soon evident that she would never 
talk again. She’d had another stroke—a 
pretty complete one this time. 

Grisly? I tell you, Clara, it was worse 
than that time when we came upon the scar¬ 
let X on Kulisan, or when we were poking 
about that ghostly old house in Connecticut, 
following the clew of the primrose petal. 
But do you know what it made me think of ? 
That morning in San Francisco which was 
to have been our wedding day, and the motor 
truck struck our cab just when I was expect¬ 
ing that another minute would bring us to 
the license office. As you lay there, cold 
and insensible in my arms, you wore for a 
while just that awful look of eternal peace 
which was settling over the face of Madame 
Boncoeur. 

But it wasn’t a time to think about the 
past, and the guardian de la paix, still hold- 

[ 298 ] 



THE TRAIL OF THE SQUID 

ing that obviously unused pistol in his hand, 
was getting impatient. 

“It must have been somebodv else,” he 

«/ / 

jabbered. “The commissaire is out looking 
for him. Oughtn’t we to be helping?” 

“My dear man,” I put in, “we were sit¬ 
ting with the doors shut and the windows 
down. And you will notice that the commis¬ 
saire is the only person who was here then 
who isn’t here now.” 

Until that minute, I don’t believe that 
anybody realized the significance of this 
fact or even the fact itself. 

“It couldn’t have been Boussai who fired 
the shot!” exclaimed Tardieu, with the 
countess—now in hysterics—clinging to his 
arm in a way that threw a flood of light on 
their secret. 

“No,” I responded—for it came to me 
now in a flash, “Boussai has probably been 
dead for months. How long ago was it since 
he was last absent from Paris for any length 
of time?” 

“He was in Tunis for his health quite a 

[ 299 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


while,” put in Forgeron. “Came back last 
October.” 

“Did you notice anything altered about 
him ? ’’ 

“His voice, maybe. He said he’d bad 
some disease of the throat. But be never did 
much talking.” 

“He’s been dead, then, for at least six 
months,” I went on. “The man who came 
back in his place was a fellow named Marie 
—The Squid, as I call him. He’d learned 
enough of the commissaire’s life and habits 
to impersonate him—not as difficult a feat as 
it looks. Boussai was always aloof in his 
ways, I gather. You remember, Judge, the 
Tichborne claimant in England ? For sheer 
acting that was a much more remarkable 
case.” 

And I went on to tell how many men I’d 
followed, thinking them to be The Squid— 
how they’d always disappeared, or turned 
out to be honest citizens. I was excited, for 
I saw that I’d discovered Marie’s great 
secret. He doesn’t disguise himself merely, 
he impersonates. Isn’t it wonderful, Clara? 

[ 300 ] 


THE TRAIL OP THE SQUID 

Simple, too. For the world is made up of 
only a few different types of men, and it’s 
much easier to suggest another of your 
own type—or of a different one, for that 
matter—than to create an entirely new 
character. 

But I couldn’t convince the judge—not all 
at once. The idea was too new. When he 
finally saw the truth of it he became more 
excited than I, and began to boil over in the 
regular French manner. 

“ We must get out after him,” he declared, 
“and not stand here doing nothing.” 

“It’s too late,” said I. “The guardian 
de la paix has already gone to raise the hue 
and cry. But nothing will come of it. ’ ’ 

“Are we to remain idle, then?” 

“For the moment yes. Surely, Your 
Honor, you understand that what happened 
to-night was planned—a foreseen possibility, 
with the getaway all ready. He had Yoyeau 
covered with his pistol for half an hour.” 

“How do you know?” 

4 ‘ I felt it when I happened to pass in front 
of it in the middle of the hearing. I’d felt 

[ 301 ] 



THE BONCOETJR AFFAIR 

it before. But this time it didn’t seem to be 
pointed intentionally at me. I seemed to 
pass in and out of a zone of danger—it didn’t 
follow me around. You see, I was no longer 
alone in the Boncoeur affair. I’d had a 
chance to talk with you, and killing me no 
longer promised much. 

“But Pierre Yoyeau possessed some pri¬ 
vate information—proof, not suspicions. It 
was that which The Squid was afraid of. 
And he came prepared to silence Noyeau 
forever the minute he saw him getting into 
such a tight corner that he’d be certain to 
talk. When I produced that thumb-print, 
he cut the wire and fired.” 

“And I saw him reachin’ out once to cut 
it before,” broke in Forgeron. “You re¬ 
member what you told me, Lepadou, about 
there bein’ a man with crooked arms and 
legs that you suspected?” 

“Yes, it was one of The Squid’s favorite 
tricks. Any man can give himself crooked 
limbs by turning his toes in and his palms 
out. Taken along with other things, it gives 

[ 302 ] 


THE TRAIL OP THE SQUID 

one an entirely altered look, even if done 
slightly. ’ ’ 

“That’s just what he done, reachin’ back 
of him towards the wire—you see there, 
where it runs along the edge of the casin’ of 
the door into Jayne’s room? He was loos¬ 
enin’ it. But I was watchin’ all the while 
for Le Glagon to be the one that started 
something, and I wouldn’t let myself believe 
my eyes, though his arm goin’ crooked that 
way made me jump.” 

“Then you’ve seen The Squid at work,” 
said I, “and betraying himself by a move¬ 
ment which has become a habit. But you 
needn’t blame yourself for not warning us. 
Noyeau only got his deserts.” 

“His deserts?” 

“Yes, wasn’t I trying to send him to the 
guillotine? I hope nobody thinks I’ve been 
as far wrong in this matter as to accuse an 
innocent man. Boussai, still to call him 
that, suggested the murder, but Noyeau 
carried it out, and for his own selfish 
purposes.” 

“I don’t understand,” complained Tar- 

[ 303 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


dieu. “How could Boussai suggest a mur¬ 
der? Hypnotism, you mean?” 

I had practically to improvise a theory, 
for I hadn’t had time to think it out. But 
once more, Clara, I hit upon what I believe 
is the truth. How the brain does work when 
you are sufficiently wrought up. For I saw 
at once that to obtain sufficient influence 
over his proxies—and proxies I now know 
he has—The Squid would first have to asso¬ 
ciate himself with them in some petty crimi¬ 
nal enterprise. It’s only when they are 
already outside the law that men have 
enough confidence in each other’s evil to 
plan murders together. 

So I made a sheer guess at it, and told the 
judge that The Squid—oh, in a character 
quite different from that of Boussai—would 
be found to have been helping Noyeau to rob 
the Boncoeur usines by falsifying the books, 
and that only then had he dared to suggest 
the way of getting rid of Ninette. 

“But why should The Squid want him to 
get rid of her?” 

“Here you come to the psychological crux 

[ 304 ] 


THE TRAIL OP THE SQUID 

of the problem/’ I responded. “And I’ll 
frankly admit that I don’t know—not posi¬ 
tively. I’ve already confessed that I’m not 
sure The Squid even exists as a single indi¬ 
vidual. Is there a band of arch-criminals 
which has come into being since the war, 
like a modern and more terrible cult of 
Thugee ? Perhaps. But it is easier for me 
to believe that the seeming unity in the 
authorship of a certain series of crimes 
which is horrifying the world is a genuine 
unity—that Marie, Le Calliou, Boussai, the 
man with the crooked limbs, and a host of 
others, are really one. 

“Is he a revolutionary? A fanatic? 
Somebody with a coldly rational scheme in 
the back of his head? Is he sane? Is he 
mad ? Once more, I can’t say. But you will 
recall the history of Gille de Rais, Your 
Honor, the original of the story of Blue¬ 
beard. He was neither a myth, nor a lunatic 
in the ordinary meaning of the word. He 
was that which the Marquis de Sade after¬ 
wards became—became in a much lesser de- 

[ 305 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


gree, though it is Sade who gave his name 
to the mania. Perhaps here is the clew. 

“Gille de Rais began by making human 
sacrifices to the devil, hoping that he would 
be able to turn lead into gold, and ended by 
taking delight in the horrible ritual. The 
Squid is more refined. No doubt there is—or 
was originally—a commercial side to his 
activities. But I think he has become a 
slave to the gloating pleasure he takes in 
simply knowing that on a certain date a 
certain woman is going to die. 

“Friends,” I went on, a little melodra¬ 
matically I am afraid, “you may not see me 
again. I’m going to take up the trail where 
I dropped it. The Boncoeur affair is only 
an episode. But I hope it’s solution marks 
a step forward, as at last I’ve seen the real 
Marie face to face. Good night and good¬ 
bye.” 

“Wait!” almost screamed the judge d’in¬ 
struction. “I more than half—a good deal 
more than half believe everything you’ve 
said. But I’ve totally forgotten to ask you 
how Ninette Boncoeur was killed.” 

[ 306 ] 


THE TRAIL OF THE SQUID 

“That, Your Honor, is easily explained. 
In all of these Squid cases there is something 
fragile—usually a beautiful cup—always 
something used in connection with food. 
And it is always found broken. 

“Pierre Noyeau gave such a cup to his 
fiancee, a cup so delicate that not even a 
servant would think of handling it roughly. 
What is more to the point, it was a cup which 
she would not be likely to lend. Therefore, 
though it looked at first as if both she and 
Jayne had had their breakfasts prepared in 
common, there was nevertheless one thing 
on the tray which Charlotte brought from 
the kitchen which one and not the other 
of the girls would be sure to take. 

“But the cup was examined,” objected 
Tardieu. “I have not only Boussai’s but 
Forger on’s and the chemist’s word for it 
that every one of the broken pieces was put 
into a dish of water, carefully washed, and 
the water subjected to analysis. No trace of 
any poison was found.” 

“That was because one of the pieces had 
been cleaned and dirtied again with harm- 

[307 ] 


THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 

less chocolate before the chemist ever saw it. 
When Forgeron made his inventory, all 
the pieces, fourteen in number, were here 
on the floor. There were fourteen given 
the chemist, and fourteen—as I discovered 
later—made the cup complete.” 

“And I thought you were pretendin’ to be 
anxious about the number of the pieces—not 
about the cup’s bein’ all there,” Forgeron 
interrupted. 

I went on: 

“But at the time of the making of the 
snap-shot one was temporarily missing. 
There has always been a missing piece of 
crockery in every case which I have attrib¬ 
uted to The Squid. It is his signature, the 
weak spot in his method, his Achilles’ heel. 

“For—do you see—a tiny pellet of cya¬ 
nide covered with a soluble gum had been 
added to the raised portion of the pattern 
which ran around the cup’s outer edge, and 
painted to look like the rest. Placed where 
the lips would come in contact with it in the 
act of drinking, the coating was certain 
sooner or later to dissolve. It was necessary 

[ 308 ] 



THE TRAIL OF THE SQUID 

to remove even a chemical trace of this pel¬ 
let. And this time Boussai meant to correct 
the single flaw in his scheme by afterwards 
returning the piece to the pile. He was too 
late. The snap-shot had already betrayed 
its absence—and I came very near failing to 
profit by the fact. 

“I also failed to profit by Noyeau’s sus¬ 
picious attempt to direct attention to the 
possibility of the poison being in some 
sort of candy when he first came to me 
with a pretended protest against the suicide 
hypothesis. But that was excusable, since 
I had no means then of fathoming his mo¬ 
tive. No doubt he actually did object to the 
idea of suicide, except for my benefit. He 
wanted Benson convicted. That must have 
suited Boussai, too, for he made no attempt 
to provide the piece of paper in which the 
cyanide would have been contained had 
Ninette actually taken her own life.” 

Having completed this exposition, I would 
have gone, only I saw Jayne moving shyly 
towards Benson, whom Forgeron had uncon¬ 
sciously been keeping at a distance. 

[ 309 ] 



THE BONCOEUR AFFAIR 


“I’m ashamed to look you in the face,” 
I heard her say. “How could I have doubted 
you? But it was only for a little while— 
when I thought it must have been you in the 
other automobile.” 

She got no further, for the young Count 
de Montfayat gathered her quite properly in 
his arms. I made for the door, Forgeron at 
my heels. I’ve had a long talk with Forge¬ 
ron, and we’re the best of friends. He’s 
going to help me and Le Squelette round up 
The Squid, and our first objective is to be the 
rue des Grrottes. I don’t know why, but I 
feel sure that there is something there . 

Then it’s home and—well, not even you 
will be able to say by that time that you’re 
not sufficiently recovered from your accident 
for us to imitate what promises to be the 
immediate procedure of Jayne and her 
Count de Montfayat. 


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